


Little Chaos

by senokai



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Arson, Beached Things (Death Stranding), Bombs, Bridge Babies (Death Stranding), DOOMS (Death Stranding), Death, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major Original Character(s), Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Some Humor, Swearing, There's just a lot, Timefall (Death Stranding), Torture, Trauma, Violence, Whump, holy shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 135,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senokai/pseuds/senokai
Summary: [ ✁ 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨//𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮! 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ✃ ]❝𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟▬▬ 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬?❞as a free-lance porter who could not give more of a f▬▬ against the crumbling world, you're too busy to care about the leader of a terrorist group who will just not leave you alone.he's dangerous, calculating, and unpredictable; a psychopath. you just think he's annoying.【𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙸-𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂】
Relationships: Higgs Monaghan/Reader
Comments: 118
Kudos: 127





	1. Wayfarers「1」

##  **𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐄𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬**

Can the world just fucking **_not_** today?

You find yourself asking that question more often lately, especially during the smallest of struggles that disrupts even a second of your daily routine. _Yes,_ you groaned, as a freelance porter your job is practically riddled with all kinds of deadly risks and terrible predicaments. You’ve certainly gotten all kinds of earfuls once you’ve grown up, and a part of you wished that you had listened to them and became a dainty, snug-little nurse instead—like your parents had intended.

But you’re efficient. Your work is effective. You’re serving the goddamn ruins of America who are too scared to crawl out of their little bunkers to get screwdrivers and sliced bread for themselves. So, fuck the system that pays you to trip on your ass while getting caught in timefall and fuck the MULEs who make your job more of a living hell by assaulting you with their taser poles. It was safe to say that the world wasn’t any different; hell literally froze over. Those creepy BTs are living— _or technically dead_ —proof of that. 

Your work had you leave the Waystation from North Mountain Knot and begin heading to Middle Knot City. You remember that it was quite a lengthy trip, where you learned to be especially cautious since there was an abandoned farm there that was smack dab in the middle of BT territory. Yet, you left in high spirits in hopes to settle in at the nearest safe house and visit the Northeastern Healing Spring. 

Avoiding trouble was something you had a natural gift for, and you were determined to keep BTs from ruining your chance of a nice hot bath.

The cargo strapped to your back started out light at first, but then came the lost and abandoned cases that you’ve decided to pick up on the way. You sighed at whoever was careless for the messy trail, yet you could not give more of a fuck as you added it to your load. If no one claims it by the time you left the terminal in the morning, you’re taking it. _Hey,_ there was more money to be made and there was a chance of gaining a lot of materials through recycling.

Especially since there had been word of said materials being put to use in rather _heinous_ ways.

Wisely, you strayed from the river’s edge with an extra tight grip on the straps as you preferred not to finish the journey with wet shoes and socks. _Fuck no,_ you scowled, carefully roving through the ladder that another passing porter had aligned across the water, _absolutely not._ You’re already unequipped with a BB, you’d rather not take the risk in going all the way back just because you weren’t careful enough to watch where you had stepped.

The sun kisses the ridges of the snowy mountains and you instantly knew you should pick up the pace. You’d rather not deal with whatever the night brings, as daylight was already terrorizing enough. BTs don’t sleep, they never experience fatigue unless they are violently expelled from being tethered to this world in a big, red explosion. You don’t care about them though; you’re calm enough during an encounter. You just don’t want it to disrupt your path while delivering cargo.

You’ve finally reached the parts you aren’t familiar with and you wing it. Your weight anchors against the giant jagged rocks that breach from the land of black dirt and you curse every-so often when your chin hits against them on a slip. _Fuck this job,_ you thought, _fuck these rocks._ The cargo on your back sways with your body as you drag your feet through the gravelly terrain in weary boots, stomping up the slope of each passing hill, and outright groan once moonlight hits your eyes.

If the hills could talk, they’d say how appalled they were when a girl carrying a stack of boxes swore for a straight hour.

Your high spirits are kept, however, as you spot the shadowy towers Middle Knot City and its terminal in the distance. 

_“Fucking finally!”_ You threw your hands up, grateful for the easy and quick descent down the incline. 

You were practically skipping down the forked road that had been harrowed in by vehicles from reverse trikes and Cicadas, a feat that hadn’t left the world because of mankind’s endless need for order. Guidelines, one would call it. Rules, you’d say. In the end, you were grateful for all of it, and even found yourself becoming alight as you saw some other porters near the terminal. They hadn’t seen you yet, but you decided to give them a smile and wave when you passed them by to deliver your things.

Your eyes flicker and find someone else in your view, your smile comes a little early.

“Hello—“ ** _𝐊𝐀-𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐌!_**

Once your feet hit the ground at the end of the hill, you found yourself at least three steps back; knocked flat on your ass. All wind is punched out of your lungs as your back slams into the ground, while another violent breeze slaps your head back like whiplash. Your cargo goes flying but yet again, you _could not_ give a fuck. You’re too preoccupied with the assault against your ears. It’s like you’ve been struck by lightning and you immediately try to duck your head into your arms, your gloved hands shoving forward to shield your eyes from the blinding light that follows. It blazes white, then yellow, then red.

It burns more than scorches, and you adjust to the shockwave of heat before slowly pulling away to bear witness to the destruction of Middle Knot City. 

It’s blown up—Middle Knot City is up in flames— _destroyed_.

_“What the fuck?”_ You whispered, eyes following the burgeoning black cloud that burned bright red at its core.

You stare at the billowing smoke for what it seems like an hour, before tearing your eyes away to the terminal—that’s gone, too.

_Seriously, what the **fuck?**_

There couldn’t have been a BT in the area, _no,_ not in Middle Knot…

You blink and find someone at the end of the hill. 

_Oh,_ you think, _there was someone on fire._

Another blink. 

_Wait, no. Someone was just standing in front of it._

You’ve adjusted to the heat that’s harsher than any sun you’ve ever had the displeasure of walking under, staring incredulously at the figure who is spreading out their arms out wide in a more than warm welcome. They roll their shoulders, and you literally have to suck in a breath not to provoke your fight or flight response. Movement catches your eye; above this figure—somehow mistaking them as terrifying as a BT. A thin mechanism flickered across their back— _an odradek sensor, you identified_ —and it blooms almost positively to the destruction upon the city. The person clapped, _why the fuck were they clapping,_ and you froze when they had turned to your direction.

You couldn’t tell if they had a weapon, and quite frankly you didn’t care. You just wanted to get the fuck out of there before you could become a BT’s next meal. Millions of them would swarm here like moths to a flame, and somehow you were still hellbent on getting to that hot spring—to safety. Becoming a crater was the last thing you wanted to be. And yet, this person— _this **terrorist**_ —had caught you in their sights, preventing you from moving.

“Well, lucky you getting a front row seat to the main event!” It was a man, greeting you with a charismatic tone that perturbs you, “Come closer, take a better gander at the whole thing.”

And just like that; he’s _gone_. You still upon witnessing the terrorist take a step and disappear with black ripples in the air. Cinders are the only sign of his presence but that is already gone, too. You dart your eyes and twist your head in every direction capable of finding the person who, you’re absolutely certain of, had been responsible for nuking an entire city.

“I didn’t expect anyone but myself getting a... _little bird’s eye-view,”_ His voice is carried by the different shifts in the wind, and you try to pinpoint the source, “Especially when you were so close to the terminal. Should’ve had another bomb right at the doorstep _,_ ”

_He has DOOMs,_ you think as you quickly push yourself from the ground, groaning slightly at your aching knees, the chances of escaping are tremendously thin now.

His teleportation is errant, appearing just behind your back and swiftly takes ahold of your shoulders with an almost punishingly tight grip. His fingers are protected from the uncomfortably intense heat by thick-leather gloves that are padded at the tips, though you can feel his nails snag into your straps. He frees you from them, letting whatever cargo is still clinging onto your back fall into the dirt, guiding you closer to the top of the next hill.

“That way, you would’ve gone to the Beach peacefully.” He whispers lowly in your ear.

You rather grimace at the fact that he’s so close to you. You’re not open to the concept of personal contact, especially as a porter and dealing with BTs all the time. Exposure to the outside world, despite how much they try to conceal how treacherous it actually is, will always be a risk you’re not willing to take. You’ve learned the hard way, the only way. This guy was just one of those reasons, and begrudgingly, you’re top priority right now.

“Uh…” You find your voice after a few tries, as hoarse and taut as it was, and try to look at him by twisting your neck as much as he had allowed, “Did you do all this?”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit, no,” He gleans through what you make out is a golden skull-mask, shrouded over a dark hood, “Had to get my hands a little dirty. I had to get a little help.”

“Oh,” _Great,_ you thought, _there were more of them,_ and you gesture with a crooked finger at the cargo from behind in hopes he’ll just take it and go away, “Well, if you’re a MULE—“

_“—MULE?”_ He tries to sound offended, but he just sounds rather cynical and shakes his head, “Oh, no. No, no no, darlin’. I’m _much_ more than that,” His hands finally release the nape of your neck and lowers his fingers to his mask, relieving himself of it with a warm sigh tickling against your ear, “I’m bound to the world of nothing and everything; _the particle of god that permeates all existence.”_

You pull away like you’re both opposing magnets and finally have the chance to catch your breath. The black mushroom that somehow darkens the shroud of night brings no tears, but a surprising form of judgement that you share with this unknown man. Whatever he’s got planned next could just end up with you being killed—an _obstacle_ in his master terrorist plan. Your jaw clenched tightly at the thought, and you really want to get out of here.

But you know he won’t allow that; he’s a bad person and hellishly unpredictable, you clearly perceive, though you’re just outright confused why he’s even bothering to introduce himself. He pulls his hand back, and you’re cautious of whether or not he was gonna sic his DOOMs abilities on you, but instead he peels off the black hood that reveals dark-brown locks and the entirety of his grinning face. His hand rises to his chest and bows in some form of noble greeting.

“The name’s Higgs.”

_Like the Higgs Boson God Particle?_ You wonder quizzically as you turned to face him, _yeah, he was definitely crazy; a downright crazy terrorist_. You express the increments of a captious countenance when the burning orange light traces the outlines of his grinning lips and stormy eyes. It fills every bit of your periphery as if you’ve completely forgotten about Middle Knot. You might as well have been, it’s like you’re captivated and born just to stare and ask questions. Your eyes flicker again from the dull reflections in them and you pry your lips apart to only ask one thing; the main and most important of the millions of questions racing through your mind.

_“Where are your eyebrows?”_

A full-ass minute of silence, and the man seemed to have only just processed what you just asked.

“What?” He blinked incredulously.

You point directly at his face, gesturing in small circles to his absence of said eyebrows and feel a surge of more morbid curiosity as you realized that they were filled in by ink tattoos. You’re met with a darkened gaze that is outlined by what seemed to be a terrible set of eye-liners. You’re somewhat glad they disappear when Higgs narrows thinly, clearly offended. It looked really bad; it was almost illegal for being so heinous. But rather than voice your sour judgements in the terrorist’s attempt at make-up, you only ask what you deemed to be what was most important.

“I mean, I’ve seen some weird lookin’ ass MULEs with tattoos of tears or knives and shit all over their faces,” You continue, trying to make out of what you can of the scribbling that somehow worsened; the dark ink going across his whole forehead, “But…what the fuck is the deal with your eyebrows?”

“They’re—“

“—Why are they equations? I don’t think tattooing math equations to your head will intimidate or scare people, especially as a terrorist.” You waylay him from trying to avoid such a bewildering topic, still you only try to peer into his face closer by taking a step forward. Yet somehow, you have been the one to disturb his personal space as he takes a large step back.

“That’s enough,” He literally growls, raising a glove that releases a similar ripple like the one he disappeared into and brings it closer to your face as it blazes with the essence of wispy black, “That’s not what’s important right now. You don’t get to make judgement. You don’t get to underestimate me, darlin’. I have more power than you can even comprehend.”

Yet, you frown. 

“Well, I’m just saying; if you’re _the particle of god that permeates all existence,_ then where the fuck are your eyebrows?” You step away, gesturing yet again at his face and begin to take caution again from his DOOMs-powered hand, “I mean, if you _permeate_ , couldn’t your hair like—I don’t know…spread closer above your eyes and give you some decent eyebrows?”

_Jesus Christ,_ you groan to yourself right as you had just realized what you’ve done, _now you’ll never see the hot springs or get to see the light of another day._ The enormously pissed-off terrorist you had just so carelessly insulted had just tightly seized you by the arm, and you react instantaneously from the excruciating pain that rockets up from his contact. You grimace, the limb had already ached from the shockwave. His DOOMs capacity really was a bitch, you think as you attempt to pry yourself from Higgs who grips you again by your other bicep, though you know that as a sufferer; he’s bound to have it worse than you.

“Fuck!“ You hiss, kicking at him in the knees to try and lower him, “Couldn’t you kill me until you’ve grown some decent eyebrows!?” 

“Sorry to say, little bird,” He breathes angrily, lurching forward opposing your strength, “But I like taking my sweet time. I might do more than just kill you…maybe I might sever your wings.”

Higgs is more powerful than you— _you fucking know that_ —but your best chance as of right now, unfortunately, was to keep him and yourself from leaving the area. You have no choice but to take the risk of the incoming BTs, but you are more confident in the possibility of other porters or even BRIDGES getting to the city before they do. If this terrorist was still against you by then, it’s game over. You’ll get caught and home-free, back safe in the comfort of your shelter while he’s surrounded and facing extortionate charges behind bars.

Your boot’s assault against his knee-caps proved that the fighting chance would be horrendously difficult; he barely even flinched. The crawling smoke trailing up his hands try to wrangle your arms out of the way as he tries to force his golden mask onto your face. You have quite the hunch that it’s made of chiralium, and it becomes another thing to worry about as the allergies it will bring—those goddamn fucking tears—can ultimately give Higgs an advantage, a sure-fire way of winning; _of killing you._

The two of you struggle against each other, either trying to stay put or keep away from one another as much as possible. You’ve done this many times before, you’re more than capable of protecting yourself—this guy was just under different circumstances. Your ears are still ringing from the explosion, but it has dulled and only thundered as the sound of yours and Higgs’ tightly labored breathing overpowers it all. You finally manage to get a step in forward between Higgs’ legs before sweeping your ankle back, savoring that sweet moment of success as he visibly staggers downward and loosens his grip on your arms.

You bring yourself back and swing a fist forward. All of your might and great pains is set aflame in your tender limbs; however, you manage to bash your knuckles on the bridge of his nose and hear the lone crack that silences everything. Higgs goes down on his knees and you’re left still standing.

You finally breathe, and yet you know suddenly that you’ve won no victories yet.

Higgs is angry when he pries his open eyes again—more displeased than wrathful, really—and you realize that your fist hasn’t pulled back yet. A burst of chiral matter sizzles at his fingertips and you cover your eyes to avoid being distracted by tears. When you look up again, he has vanished in a dark ripple and flying chiral cinders, and you stop cold when you realize that you might’ve just failed this inadvertent mission to put this crazy-terrorist behind bars. 

“You’re more of a pestering fly than a little bird, girlie,” His voice carries behind you, but once you turn, all your met with is empty hills and starry skies, “Gotta be honest; I’m debating whether or not I should just decimate you and everything here.”

It’s _girlie_ and a _pesky fly_ now, not _darling_ and a _little bird_ , you glare at his words, “Still whatever you are…whoever you claim to be…you can’t outrun this. Delaying the inevitability of your end…the _true_ end…a void out…of all life itself…is needless. It’s useless…pointless… _disappointing.”_

_What the hell is he talking about? There was absolutely no way his DOOMs level was high enough to create a void-out all on its own._

A cruel laugh answers the questions that you hadn’t uttered, and you see his mask floating in front of you—behind the smoking city.

_No,_ you realize, _he can’t cause all that._ You’re hit with certainty of the idea that Higgs is able to _summon_ BTs somehow, _but he can certainly speed up the process._

You’re unable to process anything that comes from your head any longer as you feel something wet slide up the side of your neck. Immediately, you leap away from Higgs who has appeared from behind, finding that he had not grabbed you again and strangely didn’t seem to plan on coming any further. He just _stands_ there.

“You put up quite the fight,” He hums amusedly, giving the air a long audible sniff then sighing, “Didn’t even have to send my BTs on you.”

So, you were right.

He has his mask on again with his hood, twinkling in yellow lights against the gentle moon’s rays and the last plumes of fire that have finally calmed in the distance. You knew his work was done, and he was planning to leave; BRIDGES was closing in, you see as their vehicles rode closer to the city along the highway. Your mission hung in the balance of waiting just another few seconds or letting him go and hoping that he’d get caught eventually.

Higgs, however, is _far_ from that balance; he doesn’t have that kind of time. At least, not anymore. 

_**Fuck** ,_ you thought.

“I’m afraid playing the hypocrite isn’t my best suit, but I’m gonna have to delay our little thing here,” He sighs in an overly-dramatic fashion, holding his hand out to his chest while eliciting another irked glare from you, “It’s been fun. I’d love to see more of you, little birdie. Even more…I’d love to taste you again once you’re out of that hot spring.”

Your face falls incredulously upon realizing _that_ _fucker_ _**licked** you._

Higgs raises a silencing finger to his mask before disappearing one last time, his echoing laugh is the only trace of himself ever being there. The destruction of Middle Knot City was done with his hands clean, while yours throb sorely after trying to fight him off.

You scrub furiously at your neck before scowling at the air, _“Don’t come for me until you’ve grown some decent eyebrows!”_

_Yeah, right,_ you grimaced, _like that was ever going to happen._

However, upon looking back to Middle Knot City—or what’s left of it—it dawns on you.

_The terrorist intends on seeing you again,_ you realize.

_The terrorist has tethered himself to your life who seems more deadly than a BT._

_The terrorist has equation eyebrows…and you hope that it solves his own fucking problems and keeps you from ever seeing him again._


	2. Novaturient「2」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚

_Fucking **really?**_

You’ve come to find out that you’re the lone survivor after the destruction of Middle Knot City; which means, of course, you’re immediately taken in by BRIDGES as the primary suspect. _Fucking really?_ You knew that investigators were short these days so their skills were exigent, _but fucking really?_ You can’t really blame them once you’ve been debriefed of the situation though; there were no witnesses around to confirm your arrival. They pretty much _had_ to point fingers at you. The porters that had surrounded the terminal you were trying to get to had all perished in flames. 

_People were dead_ , you realize with the sear of a cold chill aligning your spine, _and you’ve let the person responsible go._

The facility’s medical center had provided what they could of bandages and smart drugs. _The good stuff,_ you called them once. You’ve taken them after one of your first fights against MULEs. Back then, you weren’t so great at fighting compared to how you were now—you were rendered bruised and _almost_ _broken_ —riding out the high of morphine when you practically begged the nurses to give you oxycodone. You assumed they only gave it to you to shut you up, and quite frankly, you didn’t give a fuck if whether that was true and you were being a nuisance.

You had work to do—cargo to deliver. 

You were too smart to fall under porter syndrome, but you came pretty damn close.

So, while high, you told the authorities about the person— _terrorist_ —that you encountered. Half-expecting them to not believe you, however, it had become an immediate and agreeable theory. Once you told them about him, they explained to you how there had been a terrorist group on the rise in the west, called the Homo Demens. When they said that you had managed to stand your ground against their leader, Higgs, the inclination of wanting nothing to do with him became even stronger.

_Fuck him,_ you thought, _he doesn’t have the decency to grow some real eyebrows and now he had roped you into all this._

The credentials in your strand had been the only real proof that you were nothing but an innocent—and fighting—bystander; the registration sensors of Middle Knot City hadn’t been in its logs. You were forced to turn in the discarded cargo and let BRIDGES take care of the rest, meanwhile you received some emails from your clients—asking how you were and if their packages were safe— _fucking pricks._

In the end, you were let go and left standing outside the triangular building of Lake Knot City with no vehicles or Cicadas to drive you back to your shelter near Mountain Knot. What was even worse; timefall had come raining down on the city the second you stepped out of the building. The hot springs was at least a day’s trip from Lake Knot and it was way too close to two MULE territories.

_Fucking really?_

You just want to take a hot bath. 

Sitting under a timefall shelter was the only pastime, and you’re too busy having an internal war in your head to even bother with the idea of sleep. Your body still aches and you’re sliding down the last undulation of your medicinal high while being border-line traumatized from the events that happened last night. You’re replaying the crawling movement of smoke swallowing the entirety of Middle Knot City in your head, remembering the same eerie black colors running up the hands of the terrorist that you’re almost certain of will haunt you in your sleep. 

Your arms greatly tense at the thought of him grabbing you again, grimacing as you remember the sensation of terribly shocking and burning pain that was capable from his DOOMs level. But you don’t give a fuck if he’ll be there in your nightmares; nothing was even real there. Your mind drifts to assume just who and what he is. Nothing came from that fucking title… _the particle of god that permeates all existence._

The first thing you think is about his DOOMs level. He seems well above a level five, maybe even off the charts, but some part of you wonders why he didn’t just kill you on the spot and move on. He prolonged the fight by hardly doing anything but holding and burning you, and called himself a ‘ _hypocrite_ ’ when he ended up delaying your death by his hands.

The next thing you remember is that he didn’t only say _your_ end; he said _**the**_ end.

The end of all life itself, caused by a void-out that he claimed could only be carried out by his hand alone. He can summon BTs, you’re certain of this, he has a big connection to the other side and the Beach—the place that you preferred your whole life not to visit. When the timefall is finally beginning to let up, sunshine kissing the top of your forehead and cheeks, you face an irrelevant truth as you stare at the upturned ominous rainbow below the clearing grey clouds that are just as stormy as Higgs’ eyes. The truth, you realize, is that _you’re **only** a fucking porter. _

_Fuck this,_ you think, you’re edging on falling into the ruins of America and you don’t fucking need that shit. You have work to do to keep it from collapsing in on itself. You’re not the lone driving force, sure, but you are a contributor. 

You rise from the ground with a stretch and do what you always do; rove through the motions of this catastrophic excuse of a country and decide say fuck all and take a break. You’re free of cargo, beginning the journey back to the springs and free yourself from all your previous worries.

It’s about damn time you’ve taken a vacation, and you don’t care if it’s gonna be short.

In compensation of mistaking you for a terrorist, BRIDGES had been kind enough to equip you with your own odradek sensor. Of course, they couldn’t supply a proper BB for you due to being only a free-lancer and not under their complete employment, but you still appreciate the gesture. As soon as you slip the metal braces across your back, you’re almost startled by the mechanical flicker that zips over your head, and you can see the bright yellow glow within your periphery—you wanted to ask for a different color but you stomach the concerning style when they insist it works well.

You managed to bypass the first known MULE territory in the zenith of the afternoon, and your boots took the worst of your hard trekking as its durability had been reduced to half. Blisters have formed at your heels, but you still decide to keep them on as you’re already half-way past the second MULE outskirts. You can see their camps strung with dirtied white polyester drapes, held together by twisted wires and rusted metal beams, it’s a wonder they haven’t even moved since the destruction of Middle Knot and you don’t see them moving any time soon. 

There could be survivors who’re looking for a new place, you assumed that’s what the MULES had thought, they’re bound to have supplies for them to steal. However, as you learned that you are the only one left who had just slipped right out their territory in shabby foot-wear, you can’t help but raise your middle finger to them in victory as you climbed over the black-rocky terrain. Due to being free of any sort of cargo, you manage to slither effortlessly out of sight of a few MULEs who just stepped out of their camp, trudging the grounds for any unfortunate porters.

Lucky for you, you’re no _bitch-ass_ unfortunate porter. 

The odradek sensor mounted on your shoulder gives an analytical droning surge across the remaining terrain and you can see variations of complex labels and symbols within this far radius. The ability to see the amount of lost cargo and wild coral formations of cryptobiotes is staggering at first, but you’re preoccupied by dreading the lack of proper direction. You don’t have a cuff-link either, you were seriously considering just settling down at BRIDGES just so you could get a goddamn proper map. In the end, you’re left with having to make an estimate on how much farther the Northeastern Hot Spring was. Once again, fuck this crumbling system of America. 

The path is quiet and you find yourself involuntarily humming a lonely tune from your chest that has been with you since childhood. It wasn’t a very happy period in your life, but it wasn’t entirely upsetting either. You had parents, preppers—known as the Hunter and the Botanist—and they loved you…for as much as they could. Eventually the only thing memorable you’ve inherited from them were tender memories, a lonely song to leave your lips every-so often, and a bunker that you’d be more than happy to abandon and collect dust.

You ignore the abandoned and dirtied cases that are strung along the path to the spring that has finally come into view, deciding to let other porters clean up each other’s messes and leave you to enjoy a well-deserved break. You also see what appears to be a bunker not far from your destination, and it doesn’t take long as you reach down the incline of a cliff to realize that it was a prepper’s bunker; the Craftsman. Of course, you’ve never met him in person before but you have delivered packages to him once or twice. It was always tools, you remember, and you settle nicely at the thought of delivering tools for a tool.

_Yeah,_ you confirm, _not everyone was so keen on banding together all friendly-like for survival._

The world is warmer here, the steam that comes from these alabaster waters are practically singing your name. This heat is a nice change of pace from that nuke explosion you witnessed yesterday. As you approach the brink of the pools, you’re hit with an insecure reminder that you’re not too congenial with stripping down in front of the barren outside-world. What’s worse is that you remember what Higgs had said to you right after he had the unabashed nerve to lick your neck. He also smelled you, overall a complete vulgar imbecile. He knew you were planning on coming to the spring, he had his DOOM’s clairvoyance to thank for that.

Suddenly, being here seemed like walking straight into a tar pit than a relaxing spring. 

_Fuck,_ you groan, beginning to pull your sore legs back from the shore, _maybe this was a bad idea._

You look to the left; the bunkers, your job you have the choice of returning to. Then, you look to your right; the way back to Mountain Knot, your home. Slowly, you look down to the highlights of your reflection in the waters.

_Fuck!_

You shake your head, hitting your cheeks after peeling off your leather gloves, “No. You’re not letting that bastard get to you that easily.”

You continue thinking upon this predicament as you discard yourself from your odradek. If he and yourself knew you’d be coming here anyway, he wouldn’t take the chance to show up—not after nuking an entire city. He wouldn’t take the risk to drop in on you, where you could literally have the entire BRIDGES foundation right at the spring right by your side, just waiting for him. _No, no way._ You assumed that’s what his top priority was; safety. You somewhat gleamed in that small revelation as you finally stripped yourself from your worn and shabby boots, he could be afraid of you right now.

Instilling fear on a terrorist who doesn’t have eyebrows makes your heart thrum strangely. Maybe it’s an intrusive side of you? Whatever it is, it amplifies your satisfaction as you finally sink into the spring. Your fatigue, leftover pains, and the numb sensations in your arms all melt away and replenish. 

What you can’t wash away, unfortunately, is the feeling of Higgs’ tongue running across the spot he licked on your neck.

You’re happier, at least.

With permission, you access the delivery terminal of the Craftsman’s bunker. The instant you log in, you’re met with several new message alerts from BRIDGES. You skim through them with uninterested eyes, the words ‘ _your safety_ ’ and ‘ _nuclear misunderstanding_ ’ reaches your eyes but you hardly process any of their meanings. The UCA was fucked, that’s all you had to say. But at least you said it with a much more rested attitude.

Out of curiosity, however, you decide to check the logs of your standard orders. As of yesterday, you would’ve assumed that everyone was too busy dealing with the Middle Knot’s destructive aftermath; clean up and BT avoidance, all the regular protocols and shit. You thought there wouldn’t be requested orders for at least three days or so, while you mentally prepared yourself for the future heavy-lifting.

When you look back to the screen, there is one available order on the menu, titled _‘Celebratory Pizza’._

It’s destined for a bunker east of Lake Knot City, and you find an odd zeal in accepting the order quickly despite the fact that you’d have to make your way back around Middle Knot. You presumed that the burst of energy was from the rejuvenating bath and decided not to complain as the pizza came up on the automated shelves. You glance sideways to find that its recipient is someone named _Peter Englert_. For some reason, the name brings a wary tremble in your soul. 

There’s a message attached, you see, and with a small flick of your finger, you take the time to read its contents.

𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 : 𝘚 _23-84_ , 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘵

𝘚𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 ; 𝘊𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘗𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘢

**-**

_Dear Most-Fortunate Porter,_

_Thank you so very much to whoever may be so kind enough to deliver this celebratory pizza. I’ve been looking forward to this delicious meal after having quite a successful breakthrough with the help of my team. We’re currently residing in a bunker east of Lake Knot City, and we cannot wait for your arrival. Please, be extra cautious with this package, such an opportune moment only comes once in a lifetime. Careful, the contents are fragile._

_Um…okay?_

You check the cargo’s logs, finding that it was already in a locker that was waiting to be entrusted by you—left by someone vaguely named _SB._ Debating whether or not to inwardly thank or spite them, you take the package anyway. You load it onto your back, clasping it to the bottom of your power skeleton before switching on your odradek sensor. You slipped your worn boots back on, ultimately hoping that its durability would last at least a quarter after you arrived at the bunker. Only then you can ask about extra materials for recycling.

You hoped this Peter Englert wouldn’t mind. 

“God, I hope I don’t get hungry on the way there.” You groan, beginning your journey.

You hardly make it half-way around Middle Knot City when your stomach starts growling. 

_**Fucking really!?**_

It takes every bit of brainpower and will to not reach over behind you and rip the pizza box apart. Your teeth ache like you’re a baby in teething as your mind tries to simulate the feeling of biting into pleasantly gooey hot cheese, juicy cuts of pepperoni and sausage, and warm baked crust. Yet your morals keep you from being a glutton, and you couldn’t be angrier upon your carelessness. A frustrated echoing groan rips through the mountainous landscape, and you’re desperately trying not to forsake your duty as a porter and become someone stupid like a MULE. 

Yet again, _you’re smarter than that._

The blisters on your feet are beginning to flare up again, and you’re about to snatch the package from your back until you finally see Peter _fucking_ Englert’s bunker over a knoll. You practically storm up to the terminal and rip through the holographic sign at its entrance; Fragile Express’s motto. There had been some talk recently of suspicious activity revolving around that company. Though you’ve never seen Fragile herself, the new owner after the death of her father, you suspect that getting involved or being anywhere even remotely around them could get you in trouble, too.

You’ve been in too much shit already, you sigh, delivering the pizza upon logging the package at the bunker’s terminal, and you’re determined to keep up with your natural affinity for avoiding it.

The terminal’s automated system voices its empty appreciation instead of Peter Englert himself. You’re thoroughly disappointed that you’re left with a quarter of durability left in your boots, exceptionally starving, and traversing on barely twenty-minutes of sleep. The possibility of being stuck here hits the bullseye of some dull fear in you, yet you’d rather not bother with this Peter Englert— _assuming if he’s even home_. With your chin pointed to the sky, dusk is already upon you. Timefall, at least in that moment, didn’t seem to be the worst thing. 

_Great, just great._

You scrutinize your available options, even the ones that have you risking your life walking through MULE or BT territories. Going back to Lake Knot City was one of your options, though you would have to walk barefoot at the final half of that journey—it wasn’t the worst-case scenario, but the blisters on your heels was surely going to slow you down. BTs will find you during the night. Another option would be to try your chances at the ruins of Middle Knot, some other porters or BRIDGES authorities would probably still be there assessing the damages, hoping they’d give you a ride back to either the Waystation North of Mountain Knot or directly to Mountain Knot itself. 

If neither worked, that could be the worst case scenario; completely stranded within the rubbles of America.

_Fuck it_ , you decided, _Lake Knot City it is._

You take three steps out of the entrance of the bunker before freezing completely, seeing the visage of a familiarly alarming golden skull-mask. There is a body so exceptionally and impossibly high in the air in front of you, and your jaw involuntarily widens upon the burning sight—every fatigue and worry just gone in a flash. With the sun shedding the last of its warmest lights behind this figure, you can’t help but see the resemblance of yourself being in the presence of a god. But then again, why stroke such an astronomically-sized ego?

“Well, what do we have here?”

**_Higgs_**. _It’s fucking Higgs._

His beguiling voice left such an effect on you that you’re agitated by him just speaking anymore. You already know his face; you knew his grip—you don’t need the sound of his voice amplifying your foreboding dreams.

“Seems like this little bird flew too far from her nest,” Higgs’ form begins to descend upon the earth, and you smartly stay still under his glower, “Poor thing…”

You raise your chin slightly and quirk a brow, gesturing with a pointed thumb back at the bunker, “You’re Peter Englert? Peter Englert is… _you,_ Higgs?”

A low laugh resonates along the craggy area, rocks collecting the vibration of his sound, and you can feel your ears twitch backwards on it, instinctively. It’s similar to how you reacted to the sound of the explosion of Middle Knot, and you somehow don’t expect anything different from Higgs. He comes down to your height, still donning that ominous mask that you know has a wicked grin beneath it. You’re more cautious of each other’s proximity, not wanting for him to do anything perverse again.

“The one and only. Flattered that you remembered me…I do love to make a lasting impression,” He stoops down even closer to your height, his gloved fingers coming to caress the side of your cheek, yet you sway backwards, “Truthfully, I expected some greasy porter-nobody dragging himself through the mud to get here…dirtying up my place, slaving away on such fucking useless orders,”

 _Why is he monologuing?_ You withheld the urge to roll your eyes, _what’s the point of all this?_

“But this…” He chuckles deeply again, giving one long sniff in the air, “This is a much sweeter surprise.”

“Middle Knot is gone because of you.” You inculpate, eyes following his figure that slowly circles around you; like a predator surrounding his prey.

“Well…It’s like I said; I can’t take all the credit,” He drawls with an innocent shrug in his shoulders, lurching his eyes closer to yours while you firmly and stubbornly stay still, “I had some help, sure. But my hands are clean, darlin’. And I am _oh, so_ _happy_ to see that yours are, too.”

His hand snaps forward to grip you by the sides of your face, and you become perturbed with unease in fear of his arms being enveloped by that harmful pain-in-the-ass smoke again. Even when there are no such wispy black movements in your periphery, there is no increment of relief to flow inside you. His mouth and only that is revealed to you, and you shudder from that familiar wet feeling going up the side of your cheek this time. You bite back a disgusted groan.

Higgs hums delectably, flickering his storm-blue eyes against yours with the hint of ire, “I was right, sweetheart. You taste even better after that hot spring.”

_Okay, what the fuck._

You’ve had enough of his annoying vulgarity, wondering if he’s actually getting something out of this or if he’s doing it just to provoke you even more. Those thoughts of you somehow instilling fear into this terrorist by just knowing is all but swept away in complete doubt. It’s not just his ego that proves that, it’s his high DOOMs level and actual muscle that excels yours. You struggle against the strength in his one arm, curling your fingers into some aimless part of his chest and even the hem of his cloak, wondering if he’s either more powerful or he’s riding out his previous anger for insulting him and his nonexistent eyebrows.

_Oh!_ You suddenly remember, deciding to vocalize your thoughts this time through gritted teeth, “Have you grown any eyebrows yet? I distinctively told you not to kill me until you’ve grown some.”

His nails dig into your cheeks even tighter, and you wince with a biting scowl that stretched between his gloved middle finger and thumb. Yet, you don’t regret saying it. Higgs begins to growl again and reach out for his mask with his other hand, the same alarm going off inside you as you know the Chiralium will affect you in the worst of ways. Such applied strength in one place to keep you still, however, gives you an open opportunity of hitting _other_ targets _._

Before Higgs can catch on—the place where his eyebrows should be furrows upon seeing your haggard smile—you’ve landed a solid kick in the gut that makes him drop you instantaneously. Momentum on that swing really did the trick, you applauded yourself, pushing up your knees from the ground before beginning to break off into a sprint. Higgs recovers from being hunched over after two seconds, now hellbent on acting upon what he called ‘ _severing your wings_ ’.

His hand goes up and so do many others. You barely make it around the tunnel of the bunker before a sudden sequence of gropes and grips at your ankles and calves makes all your movement stop completely. You throw your head down, nearly letting out a disgusted yell once you had witnessed the sight of dripping humanoid figures—as if grotesquely sculpted out of wet tar—claw and try to tether you to the ground that begins to sink in a thick, black puddle. Your odradek was going absolutely hay-wire.

_BTs,_ you realize.

Your instincts scream at you to get the fuck out of there, and your valiant efforts had managed to pry at least one foot out of their clutches. But in doing so, you lose balance…as well as your boot that no longer had the integrity you needed to get out of dodge. It is swallowed in the pit, where ominous BTs are the only thing left in your wake; trying to drag you back to a smiling Higgs.

“Fuck!” You rasp tightly, losing yet another boot that one BT manages to rip off, “Shit! Let me—“

“—Look at you,” Higgs coos, coming down to your level, procuring your broken boot from the pit that he waves around in your face so mockingly, “How unfortunate. Nothing but _feathers_ , now. You were really planning on making it back to Lake Knot? _In these shoes?”_

“Yeah, and I was hoping to step on your throat with them, too,” You hiss, staggering even lower on a single knee, trying to claw at a BT that was climbing up your shoulder, “Fuck! You’re really the one giving me fashion advice? Hell, you can’t even put eyeliner on correct—“

A hand that’s not Higgs’ or yours silences you, and you let a silent scream tear from your throat as you feel this oily, wet sensation soak across your mouth. You refuse to let any of it inside, however, you try your best not to swallow it. Higgs sighs this time, and you wonder if he’s going to carry out his initial task this time; ending your life once and for all.

_“—Little Bird,”_ His voice is getting oddly fainter, now, dark spots are beginning to shroud itself over your eyes, _“You’ll fly again with me on the Beach.”_

Darkness swallows you, and the only thing that crosses your mind before unconsciousness does is wondering if there was pizza in the afterlife. 


	3. Sojourn「3」

## 𝐍𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐲

This was such a **_shitty_** idea.

As a human living in the world that had just barely crawled out of the brink of catastrophe, you were more or less expecting your death to come within the next ten years or so. There were dangerous things that put an end to human life these days, and most of them weren’t even other humans. Murder and torture had endured in the world— _hell, that’s how things got done_ —but it only truly thrived when the deeds were carried out by what resided in the world of the dead. Everything that mattered ever came from there, tethered to those among the living, whether they liked it or not.

BTs were the least of your problems, it was pretty surprising for someone like you to be saying that; especially as a porter. But as you’ve had a hardened and uncaring—more or less just purely disinterested—disposition on life, just existing was your main agenda and living with yourself was the only challenge. Having an autonomous talent that makes you stray from dangerous paths in life is the only thing that has gotten you this far, but now you realize that you’ve been living on borrowed time. 

Ten years have come and gone from the moment you were born, not while you were still learning and figuring things out. Your gift has been bled dry, and you’re now at the precipice of death. Your life was now kept in the hands of this dangerous and perversive terrorist-leader, and you could not be more _annoyed_.

You can hardly remember the last few seconds of your fray before you slipped unconscious, all you knew was that Higgs had gotten the drop on you after revealing himself to be Peter Englert, the supposed prepper that you were delivering a simple pizza for. _Fuck no,_ you thought, _you’re not delivering your goddamn life instead._ When you opened your eyes—assuming that you even could as you were practically drowning in _BT soup_ —everything was black. _Shocker_.

Your mouth didn’t have the putrid, oily tar-taste, _thank god,_ but it was unfathomably dry and your breath had been coaxed in a sour air. Every passing second seemed like a challenge for you, trying to become hyperaware of every movement and every sense that you’ve felt or regained. You knew that your limbs were still attached to your body, hell that was the only reason why you felt an aching pain, so moving your fingers had taken at least three attempts before you felt the textures all around you. 

_“Shit…”_ You managed to rasp dryly, speaking through a tight chest that felt like someone was sitting on top of you, searching desperately for some lick of air to touch your tongue, _“H…Higgs…”_

_Come here and get me out of this, you fucking bastard._

_Fuck,_ you thought again after taking a heavy gasp, _he really might’ve ‘severed your wings’._

Your mind begins to sway again, and the phosphenes in the darkness make you even dizzier. There is a gentle sound that could be heard if you really concentrated, but it becomes increasingly difficult to pinpoint as your eyes begin to close again. You don’t know where you are, you don’t know what Higgs is planning, and you don’t even know if you’re still alive at this point. The only sliver of memory that you can manage is _pizza_ —dying on an empty stomach was the worst way to go. It comes with the sound again, as if it was there to mock you.

You think it’s the ocean.

The next time you open your eyes, you shut them back up again tightly from the punching assault of a white light coming from above. It doesn’t take you two seconds to fling up your arm to shield you from the harsh ray. The movements were so sudden that all the pain and tenderness that had plagued you the last time you awoke had disappeared. The only impression that was left on you was pure confusion—with a side of annoyance. _Where the fuck are you?_ Your mind reels back to the thought of Higgs, and you immediately scowl after your memory catches up with you all at once; _he **beat** you._

Between the question of whether you were left out in the open or just plain dead—you wonder what has become of you and if your body had washed up on the Beach like Higgs wanted. You despised that place, you grimaced as you peeled your arm away from your eyes, if Higgs brought you here you were seriously going to kill him. Well, trying to get _away_ from him and _killing_ him were completely different but _still._

There’s another sound that resounds from the far left of you, and you dread at the thought of it being a rolling wave crashing along the shore. But it chuckles, it laughs—it has a _fucking voice._ Indecipherable muffled sounds continued, thanks to your heart beginning to pick up speed in your chest, but it didn’t change your wrathful mien. You shoot upwards and immediately bear a glare full of rancor. 

_“You—“_

“—Well, good morning, sunshine,” The cursed golden-mask of Higgs greeted you with that vexingly happy tone, leaned comfortably on an office chair in the corner of the room while he swiveled smoothly to meet your harsh gaze, “You had me worried there, I thought I was gonna have to dump you in BT territory. Couldn’t even tell if you were breathing.”

You attempt to move but you don’t get very far; the cuffs attached to the edge of the cot made sure of that, and you bite back a string of curses before pointing sternly at the chain around your wrist, “Let me go.”

Higgs makes a sardonic whine under his breath as he rises from the seat, planting a hand on his chest as he portrays a fake wince of hurt. Your mind drifts to your current survival predicament and with one quick glance around the room, it’s not hard to recognize the fortifications around you. It’s a bunker, _Peter Englert’s bunker… **Higgs’** bunker._

_Goddamnit,_ this day just keeps getting worse by the second.

“You’re awfully unappreciative of my sporadic hospitality, little bird. What’s wrong? Afraid you’ll end up in the cuckoo’s nest?” _I’m already here, dumbass,_ you think with a groan, shifting your legs closer to your chest when you notice Higgs stalking closer, “I would imagine that my humble abode wouldn’t be any different than those private rooms you porters sleep in. The cuffs ain’t so different either, are they? Those BRIDGES fuckers…gotta say, they’re awfully deviant in the style of their uniforms. But I don’t blame them…everyone’s gotta have some excitement in their little lives…no matter how degrading it could be for others.”

_Kinky bastard,_ you think with a raised brow, jiggling the cuff around your wrist higher towards his face impatiently, “Listen, I don’t work with BRIDGES so you can spare me the fetish talk for someone who actually works for them. I’m independent and I make a habit of staying away from _morons_ like you…I’d appreciate it if you don’t break my streak.”

Higgs is an eccentric, egotistical character— _how could you not figure that out, it’s so fucking obvious_ —so he clearly didn’t register well with your blunt tone and candid attitude. However, as you shuffle backwards against the other corner of the cot and towards the wall, it was clear to you that it intrigued and amused him in the most peculiar of ways. You could see it… _and couldn’t;_ even though he had his mask on, he was kind of easy to read.

“Ever heard of personal space?” You ask, holding back the urge to spit in his golden mask that loomed much closer to you. 

You hear a breathy laugh, watching a little thankfully as Higgs pulls farther away from you, coming to rest a knee at the edge on the metal brace of the cot, “That does concern you the most, doesn’t it? Close contact…intimacy…friends and family…strong bonds… _strands?_ That’s the downside of being a porter; you can never be too close to anyone before they set out on their next delivery and then— _poof!_ They’re gone… Just a BT’s next meal. Dead and unburied. Left to burn, for the fortunate few.”

“Does every conversation you have with someone consist of this much monologuing?” _Well,_ that earned a harsh searing yank of your hair, and you wince as he yanks your eyes towards his, “Or this much… _violence?”_

“Violence and conversation aren’t too far from each other in my experience, little bird,” He reveals, turning over the side of your head by a slow drag with his guiding bare hand pulling your hair, and you can feel his eyes burn into the side of your neck; staring at the wretched place he licked, “That’s another thing you should get used to in this world, if no couple had their quarrels, their bonds would be made of weak stuff. Otherwise, what would be the point in making connections? Where would be the _love?”_

You manage to show an ire spark in your eye against your strained position, “Then, let me go. Stop fighting me every time you see me, for fuck’s sake.”

You can practically hear the cogwheels in his brain turning, and some part of you thinks that it’s been a while since he’s ever fucking used it. There is hesitance to his surprisingly warm touch that hadn’t donned gloves—and you assumed he didn’t need them in the comfort of his worryingly messy home. The layers of pain peel away as Higgs slowly releases your hair, neatening the unkempt tresses with slow combs before giving yet another irksome sniff in the air. A frown slants across your mouth as you watch Higgs remove his mask, both black and gold. You can tell that he’s savoring it; your smell. You did come back from the springs, after all—just how he wanted.

_Creep,_ you think before blinking at his face, _creep without eyebrows._

You were actually considering pinning him down and drawing some on with permanent ink, though it wouldn’t make you respect him anymore.

“I’m afraid you got me beat, darlin’,” Higgs chuckles deeply, moving his hand again towards the column of your neck, “You’ve made much more of a lasting impression than I ever could. Sure, there are assholes but then there’s _you_. Glad to know you’re not just soft feathers inside and out…sweet blood and bones in there, too.”

Like you said, _you’re smarter than to fall under the waves of stupidity,_ and you give an incensed frown to prove that, “I have a hunch that despite how much I amuse you, I won’t be leaving so easily. Will I?”

You roll your eyes as soon as Higgs’ elfin chuckle reverberates throughout your ears, and you can practically feel his hilarity emanate from his enthused moments. You discern the bunker with much more time in your hands, almost baffled by the amount of strung up papers and news clippings, books on the floor—some of them you recognize—and writings on the wall that was done with the rebelliousness of a child. You’re not surprised; even despite being a terrorist, you thought of him as a maniacal juvenile.

“What are you gonna do with me?” You ask, crossing one leg over the other, making the best use of your time by trying to get comfortable, “I don’t imagine myself being any use to a terrorist leader. Especially not like some shitty jester.”

Higgs’ laughs are inextricably amused and sardonic, and even though you ignore any of his advancements to prevent a headache he frequently causes, you know to be careful as he had the upper hand here, “I can’t be sending you along your merry way, unfortunately. You’re a porter and you’ve got deliveries to make. And this time, you caught me in the wrong place at the wrong time. The automated system wasn’t enough to convince you… _sort of_ …so I’m afraid we’re gonna have to jump the gun here.”

_Not only does he monologue but he’s **so** unnecessarily cryptic, too._

You raise a brow, wheeling your hands impatiently, _“Meaning?”_

“I’m gonna have to get myself off the grid for a little while…at least until BRIDGES authorities leave Middle Knot and give the official word out that it’s unfixable. Can’t have you blabbing your mouth the second you walk out of here quite yet.”

“And assuming that you do let me go, _anyway…”_ You drawl, raising a brow at his lips that suddenly stretch in an atrocious grin, and you give a disturbed glare, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m gonna have to switch roles with you here, sweetheart,” Higgs shrugs his shoulders, bringing his hand up from your neck and up towards your hair again, twirling random strands around his fingers, “Keeping a bird’s eye will be tiring but…with you… _oh,_ I’m sure we’re gonna have a great deal of fun.”

When you swing your head at him and almost bite his finger, Higgs releases another laugh that’s loud enough to echo out of the bunker’s tunnel, yet you’re somewhat hoping that his stupid laugh will be able to reach the nearest prepper or city who’ll come to your rescue, “Absolutely fucking not. I don’t want to be involved with you. Even if you weren’t a terrorist.”

“Oh, honey,” Higgs coos gently, swooping down to lick another stripe along the side of your neck, and you groan this time at the load of his weight pressing against you, “In this volatile life, we’ve both run out of options. It’s best we stick together… _through thick and thin.”_

“You’re so fucking gross, dude.” You hiss before your mouth is pressed down and muffled against Higgs’ hand. 

“Best not get on each other’s nerves,” Although Higgs’ tone is beguiling and rich with amusement, you don’t miss the warning in the deeper tones, “Our fun can only last so long.”

The second you open your mouth to sink your teeth into his palm; Higgs is gone. He makes a jump that leaves you glaring at wavering air and sizzling chiral sparks. Because of how irritatingly close he was to you, and the face that he was fucking touching you, you’re shedding a few allergenic tears and dreading on a small sense of mourn. 

When you reach your fingertips to wipe the tears away, you’re astonished as wet black streaks have stained your skin.

As the daughter of preppers, you’re born with the knowledge of how dangerous the outside world was. Timefall was your first lesson; it decays everything it touches in rapid succession. BTs were the second; beings among the dead that will feast upon the living. And void-outs; the result of what would happen if those BTs do end up consuming the living. Your father, the Hunter, was quite erudite in his BT and void-out teachings—knowledge that had been passed down for at least a generation, and then onto you. Your mother, the Botanist, taught you about timefall—bringing you to a shelter to watch the rain wither her subjects, and you caught onto their lessons exceptionally fast.

Now, you’re left with figuring out how to handle terrorists on your own; a teaching that may or may not be passed down onto your children, depending if you were as smart as you think you are. 

For hours, you try to figure out what to do as you’re chained to the side of Higgs’ bed. Surprisingly, almost everything that had been scattered around the room had been out of your reach. The only thing you could reach was the desk, where some increment of luck seemed to be on your side as the pizza box was within your radius. You didn’t even think twice about ripping it open and slaking your hunger, more or less bothered by your increasing thirst. Everything was messy, _did this guy **ever** clean? _

There are photos of the woman you recognized as the president of the United States and occasional scribbles across the wall with arrows next to them, spelling out ‘ _bitch_ ’, ‘ _cunt_ ’, or anything else vulgar. Higgs wasn’t as charismatically cool as he perceived to be. One book in particular was able to be moved within your reach as you dragged your stretched heel across the floor; _Wisdom of the Egyptians._ After reading the first two pages, you instantly knew what might’ve been going through Higgs’ weird-ass brain and promptly shut the book.

_“Nerd.”_ You muttered quietly, tearing a chunk of pizza apart with your teeth.

The night has come, stretching its seemingly longer seconds of midnight across this horrendous surely illegal bunker. Once Higgs comes back from his business dealing with the Homo Demens down in Edge Knot City— _normal terrorist agendas,_ you assume—you hardly greet him with a glance over your shoulder as he reveals himself standing at the doorway, meanwhile you’re too busy being a glutton with the pizza. With a slight peer over your shoulder as you sit at the other edge of the cot, just barely being able to reach the desk with the flipped open box, Higgs is minorly displeased to see that you’ve consumed half of it.

“Glad to see you’re making yourself at home.” He hums, bending downwards to procure a slice while you maintain your distance and chew on your last piece of crust.

“Glad that you haven’t killed me for eating, at all,” You shoot back, both pairs of eyes never leaving each other as you swallow and discern the fact that he’s smiling at this, and you know he is despite the fact he’s wearing his mask again, “Why don’t you just kill me? Clearly, I don’t want to be here and it’ll surely allow you to do whatever you want to this country.”

You hear a hum, _why was he humming,_ and Higgs indulges in your query by gesturing a hand to the walls, pizza still in hand, “If we Americans don’t come together, humanity won’t survive.”

_Well,_ you think, _that’s a rather dismal way of putting it._

“Our president, Miss Bridget Strand believes in that motto, she’s bet all her time and money on it,” Higgs sighs, almost tiredly, and you can see something uncertain flash within his sullen eyes, “She believes that uniting the UCA once and for all will ensure our survival, as if the inevitability of our end will _never_ come. Connections can go a long way and as a sufferer…as a _god,“_

_Jesus Christ,_ you roll your eyes.

“Gathering all my little followers and servants to my cause will usher the undying truth faster than her little idea,” Higgs is saying this as if he’s some preacher, as if he knows the unknowable and trying to sway you to his side, but you merely blink unimpressed and snarl when he caresses the side of your cheek, “The world will see it—the corporeal truth—like how some poor son-of-a-bitch with DOOMs sees a BT. Everyone will see it, and you will, too. So, I think it’ll be more fun to watch that pretty stone-cold face break into tears when that time comes.”

“I’d argue that seeing my _dead_ face will get you off more than that,” You scowl, removing your chin from between his fingers and give a sigh, “Just leave me alone, for fuck’s sake. I have a job to do. God, I’m just a _fucking_ porter.”

But somehow, you know that Higgs thinks that what you said isn’t true. And somehow, for the life of you, you don’t know why _exactly_. You’re tentative on the idea that you’re not as smart as you think, or that Higgs is just as smart as you. _Doesn’t fucking seem like it thought,_ you think, watching him discard his masks and places it next to the pizza box that he closes.

He stuffs it in his mouth and shrugs his shoulders, while you watch in partial amazement and disgust. He crosses the room to shut off the lights in the bunker and you still upon the unforeseen predicament that you’re ensnared in. You slowly slither back to the corner in the wall, tucking your knees in tighter against your chest and aimlessly glare at the darkness. You can’t see Higgs but it’s not an improvement in this case, and you stiffen when you feel weight sink into the spot not far from you.

Higgs had laid down, ignoring you. You think you had comprehended everything that could come out from this terrorist but you’re still left confused and annoyed as ever. You’re not irked at the fact that you’re not receiving some necessary attention—like him directing you where to go or what plans he concocted for you to do while he slept—but it’s just… _ **why?** Why is he keeping you here?_

You bite back a groan and remove yourself from the cot, still unfortunately chained to the braces as you sink down against the beams. Sleep is finally beginning to take you, _thank god,_ but you’re incredibly weary of what could transpire from Higgs while you slept. A minute passes by, then two…then five.

_God, it’s dark in here._

Your head sways and rises in a tired cycle, and fifteen minutes jumps to thirty when you feel Higgs move up higher against the bunk. You don’t want to dream, fearing what may be waiting for you on the other side, whether it was Higgs or the chiral matter that could put you through some unpredictable catastrophic nightmares. There weren’t any explicit documents in your possession about what kind of dreams people had when they were exposed to large amounts of chiral matter, and with how much you had endured that was apparently enough for you to be crying black tears, there was really no way of knowing.

Another internal war is on the brink of firing throughout your head, and you dread the thought of two nights without proper sleep. When your head elevates up again, pressed against the metal beam, you’re startled to find that Higgs’ hand is keeping it there. His hand has draped itself over your eyes, and the room seems more darker than it ever was before. This is the second time that you feel the entirety of his warm skin, and you pry your lips open to ask _what the fuck—_

“Go to sleep.” 

His word is God. 

You chuckle softly at the thought before sleep finally takes you, with _some_ thanks to Higgs.

_Yeah, right._


	4. Eudaemonia「4」

## 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧; 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲

_Son of bitch, **why?**_

The concept of being kidnapped wasn’t so completely lost on you, _no_ , it was more like you were just over-anticipating every second that came next. Every movement that dwindled past you and every lingering feeling in the air gave some sort of spike in your chest that made you flinch from beside the cot you were chained to. An odd wind would sweep through the room if you so much as touched the cuffs around your wrist, trying to feel around the red tender creases it had made. In the end, you stopped moving completely, yet felt the need to glare whenever your captor appeared in a ripple of black smoke. You were _helpless_ here, not _hopeless_. 

Higgs was not a man of complete patience, you learned. He was always coming and going, sitting in one place before moving to the next in a huff. Their camp in Edge Knot City—of which he revealed to you while you were telling him to shut up and let you sleep—was beginning to heighten his suspicions of traitors among them. You didn’t ask, you didn’t want to know. He went on for some minutes about the company he betrayed—because of course, that’s what he does; _betray and kill people_ —and how he was sure of himself that there was no one that could be trusted to wipe the slate clean. The end of it all, _everything_ , would be gone by his hand.

You only put a hand over your eyes and told him to shut the fuck up and bring back some pizza the next time he left.

Dreams were beginning to come to you more easily now. At first, there was a constant fear inside your chest whenever you’d close your eyes and see the forming and pulsing phosphenes behind heavy eyelids. You hated dreaming. But it seemed like mercy was shining down on you; there were no nightmares of Higgs tormenting you and no vivid replays of the burning nuke going off in Middle Knot City. You were especially glad that you haven’t found yourself washed up on the shores of the Beach. 

Thank god. Thank _fucking_ god.

What you had to learn on your own was the existence of the Beach. There were stories and numerous articles of research pertaining ‘ _the place between the living world and what comes next_ ’; and all you could deem about this place was that it was certain death to stay. Porters who you used to know, who had been claimed by dreams of the world’s end, had talked frequently about their visits. At first, they didn’t interest you—thinking that they were just another common type of dream that people had—like teeth falling out of gums—but it wasn’t until you realized that people with DOOMs had the strongest connection to them. Then, you instantly feared that place. 

_People with DOOMs are bad news,_ your father told you, remembering the violent cocking of the rifle he had in his hands that followed after his advice, _they bring omens, bad tidings—you see them, you run._ Your mother agreed to her husband’s advice as she watered her lavenders—though she wasn’t much of an aficionado herself in the subject— _if people with DOOMs had a connection to the beach, they could leave you stranded and alone forever._

Humans don’t understand it much, it is unpredictable—like the ocean of the Beach. The tides of change will shift in all sorts of ways. It’s best to keep out of such trouble. You were beginning to remember how lucky you are in this life; how safe you used to be as you walked in the footsteps of others.

_You’re our daughter,_ they told you with empty smiles, _you know what to do._

Now, you were on your own path.

You could hear the patter of timefall from outside the bunker’s entrance tunnel, showering lightly upon the concrete fortifications that brought no warmth down below. Higgs said that he would be back soon— _more fun,_ he insisted—and you had awoken to the sound of his monitors pinging with a new notification and a bright flash across the screen. Though you weren’t able to make out the complete body of text from the edge of the cot, you were able to see the large bolded letters of the subject, and your heart took a mysterious leap that made you stand. 

𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺 - 𝘎𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘊𝘈

“The world is so fragile,” The sound of Higgs’ voice heaved so fervently in your ear, eliciting a strained grumble from your throat, “Should make everything a piece of cake when it comes to the grand finale.”

His ungloved hands curl around on either side of your hips, guiding the two of you closer and further towards the computer screen that shimmered the chance of your imminent freedom. His arms and body sways to the nonexistent music of timefall, and you literally have to drop your head forward from being any closer. He was doing this just to piss you off, you knew with a glare, freedom that was in sight but out of reach. Higgs found himself humming divertingly as the excursion left him depraved from your quivering panic. You can hear him inhaling the air above your shoulder, trying to instill some form of fear, but you chose to jolt it right into his face. 

“You should be glad I didn’t break that fucking nose,” You tear yourself from his grip and spin to face him, and the sight of Higgs holding the flushed welt that makes your pride swell somewhat, “And you didn’t bring back pizza. Shame.”

Higgs, _ever the beguiling idiot_ , decides that he shouldn’t get angry; but continues to be a cretin that finds everything _oh-so_ amusing. He likes your spryness in the worst situations, you’ve picked up on the trait the second time around. What you didn’t anticipate from him was his evident physique; free from his golden mask, his bullet-proof vest, and the hooded cloak that shrouded him in ominous mystery. He looked like a regular person— _minus the tattoo equation eyebrows_ —donning a fitted black long-sleeve shirt, tucked into cargo pants that were held by his cloak tied around his waist.

_Oh, great,_ you thought while rolling your eyes, _he’s here for the long haul._

“I thought you’d enjoy the company after being cooped up in here for so long. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“No.” You say flatly, watching him pucker his lips into a pout, bringing his hand to his chest in mock-hurt.

“Well, at least I damage _property_. Not _feelings.”_

“Speaking of which,” You waylay him from continuing to drag out your time here, turning slightly to point at his monitor that announces the decimation of the city, “It’s over now, isn’t it? Middle Knot is gone, like you hoped, and there’s no point in keeping me here anymore.”

Higgs attempts to lean closer to you, but you take two steps back. He’s broken at least half of your personal bubble for all the times that he had licked and sniffed you, and whatever dignity you had left as a porter straying from trouble was beginning to slip right through your fingers. _The walls are falling down_ , you thought bitterly, and someone like Higgs is determined to blow up whichever side he comes to. He’s enjoying this, but you think that he’s somehow not; somewhat yearning for more contact with you.

_Is that what he wants?_ You query with a raised brow as Higgs’ lips curl, _cause I’m sure as hell not gonna give it to him._

But while you’re cuffed, it doesn’t seem like you can really refuse. 

He lurks calmly, donning an expression that you discern as somber and ambitious— _a dangerous mixture_ —and you can hear the chain on your cuffs rattle loudly. From the outlines of his pullover, he’s exceptionally leaner than you’d initially thought—a thickset of arms that could literally snap your neck if it bended even a little in its clutch—yet you decided that you weren’t gonna let this fucker intimidate you by size. 

_“Oh, little bird,”_ He chuckles slyly, coming chest to chest with you as you stood your ground, “Always wanting to fly so far even with a pair of broken wings. What’s your rush? Surely, you’re not so eager to go back to that _lonely_ little bunker up in Mountain Knot? Are you _really_ ready to go back to face your daddy with his gun and your momma with her withering flowers?”

_Son of a bitch._

“Man, fuck you.” You snarl, earning a somewhat unexpected gesture; his forehead coming down to rest against yours.

“Don’t tempt me,” He says in a low growl, firing his hands forward with a cruel grip, his longer fingers intertwined with yours where his nails dig into the back of your hands, “It would be so easy considering you’re cuffed right now.”

His fingers slide downwards in a delicate trace to caress the red harrows of your skin, where his cooler touch worsens its burning ache. _If this bastard could get to the point,_ you think impatiently, _that would be just great._ You hate the fact that Higgs is beginning to know just who you are—about your _parents_ , more specifically—but somehow, there’s some part of your mind that lets it go. They’re not in your life anymore, you don’t need to worry about whatever Higgs has up his sleeve in an attempt to threaten your life through collateral damage. Sure, he can control _BTs_ , but he is powerless against the painful ghosts.

“But…you’re right. I’ll have to pick up on that invitation some other time,” Higgs reels his head back, his storm-brewed eyes peering into your vexed gaze, “As you know, I don’t play well as the role of a hypocrite so I do intend to keep my word; _**all**_ of my words. I’ll still be keeping an eye on you. It’s us against the world, remember?”

“Just you, Higgs,” You sigh, snatching your hands away from his and jiggling the cuff to his face impatiently, “Hurry it up. I’ve got deliveries to make.”

When Higgs gives you that _godforsaken shit-eating smug grin_ before disappearing yet again in a chiral ripple, you know that all of your pure irritability and impatience that you’ve shown him after all this time, is what he considers it to be a hardened bravado and playful banter. Through deep breaths and furiously wiping your black tear streaks, you finally manage to steel your fervent nerves that may have managed to reach their peak. _Great,_ you think, _now I’ve got a narcissistic moronic shoulder devil everywhere I go 24/7._ The cuffs around your hand are gone, and you immediately remove yourself out of Higgs’ bunker after stealing a pair of his boots tucked in by the doorway—thankfully the timefall has let up.

For some reason, once you’re two steps out of the entrance tunnel, you find yourself bearing an involuntary frown.

You’re gonna have to report him to the BRIDGES foundation, soon.

_Oh, sweet **freedom!**_

The journey from Higgs’ bunker to the Distribution Center South of Lake Knot City was peculiarly difficult—Higgs’ boots were at least three times your size, moving around in them was a pain in the ass. Yet, throughout the trekking, you had come to experience one of those rare moments of appreciating this harsh outside world. There was _wind_ , you practically gleamed as you felt it whip up through your hair, a breeze that made you feel as if you were walking right on top of it. It wasn’t anything like an insulated motion against your cheeks thanks to mechanical vents; it was wild and natural, and the sight of hills was all the more thrilling. 

As a porter, you’ve mapped out most of the American landscape that had been considered to be just obstacles to get through. Mountains that had routes and noted trailing dangers to climb over, jagged hills and rocks that you always thought was an easy or difficult walk upon the slope—you hardly thought of them as scenic feats of nature. It was a sight that was nice for a change of pace, but you didn’t at all thank the person who caused it. Speaking of which, the quiet had consistently brought you to a rare peace of mind—there was no more of Higgs’ irritable attempts at conversation and no vulgar comments directed about your rare attitude—just peace and fucking quiet. 

_Nope,_ you didn’t miss him. You were a little certain of the thought that he was watching you like some kind of stalker; the term didn’t fall too far from the category of how he acted, so you didn’t feel the least bit sorry about it. It didn’t bother you too much since he probably had better things to do at this hour, terrorist business again, you assumed—so settling down in Lake Knot’s Southern Distribution Center and renting a nice private room was done smoothly before hopping into the shower. 

You washed away at the places where Higgs had touched. To the best of your ability, you’ve scrubbed yourself of any remnant of his saliva and scent that he so annoyingly left on you, finally feeling the invisible shackling marks on your skin sink down the drain. It was probably two hours since you’ve gone inside, but you wanted to feel the heat a little longer. 

You smoothed your palm over the sore marks on your hand before immediately flinching back. Your movement was the same as Higgs’ when he was holding you.

_Motherfucker…_

This time you’ve donned a level 2 speed skeleton than your usual level 2 power one. After the whole ordeal of getting kidnapped because you were too slow for the BTs that grabbed you, you decided that you wanted to be prepared for new dangers before stepping out again—especially now that Higgs was _supposedly_ watching you. You’ve trashed his boots as soon as you were finished recycling all the material you had at your disposal, managing to pull some favors with the connections you had and get a new pair of level two BRIDGES boots. They weren’t particularly better than the ones that you used to have before they broke, but it was certainly better than nothing. It took a breather and a couple seconds to prepare yourself from heading out again, and you finally emerged from the center with a shadowy silhouette kissing against your cheeks than sunlight. 

A woman was there— _no, not anymore_ —before teleporting in front of you.

_DOOMs_ , you realized.

FRAGILE Express in bolded white letters ran across the mysteriously padded leather jacket she donned, but you were more concerned about the gun that she had in her hand. You blinked, completely shocked and unprepared this time of finding yourself yet again in another situation that can end with your untimely death. You would’ve been fine with it if you were a repatriate, but _no._ You’re just a person, putting your hands up in surrender for the woman who narrowed her teary big-blue eyes at your stunned expression.

_Can this world just give you a fucking break?_

“Did I um…” You managed to speak with a hoarse voice, raising a slow and nervous brow, “Did I miss out on delivering your order or something? Cause I’ve had kind of a hard couple of—“

_“—I saw you,”_ She says in a taut French accent, bringing the barrel of the gun closer between your eyes, “I _saw_ you with Higgs when Middle Knot was destroyed. It took me awhile to find you, I didn’t even know he had a partner in this…but now you’re here. Right where I want you.”

You try to step backwards and maintain a safe distance, but this woman was faster, already read your movements and shoved herself to keep up with you—but it doesn’t stop you from throwing a rather nasty glare. _Partner?_ You practically scoffed and snorted right in her face, beginning to lower your arms incredulously upon her shitty—and _wildly_ inaccurate—accusation. _**You?** Working with Higgs? _

_“Listen,”_ You say with a leveled voice, motioning with your hands to yourself, “I do _not_ work for Higgs. I think if I worked for him, I would’ve been dead by now. I’ve spent enough time as his **_captive_** to know that if I had any part in it; the moron would’ve sent me to destroy Middle Knot as a suicide bomber.” 

It took you a few seconds to rip your eyes away from the gun and stare straight into her eyes, coming to the realization that this woman was _fucking_ _Fragile_ _herself_. _She was quite the looker,_ you thought innocently, though the tears are a pretty shameful thing on her. Although Fragile does not seem completely convinced that you’re not working for Higgs—you’d like to think that she agreed on the thought of you being a suicide bomber than an actual partner—she lowers her gun. There is no time to take a breath of relief before she throws another question at you again.

“What were you doing with Higgs in Middle Knot City, then?” 

You grimace, shrugging your shoulders slowly as you remembered the charred bodies by the city’s terminal, “I’m a freelance porter, I was just going to make my regular deliveries. But then, before I even stepped into the city, it blew up. My strand doesn’t have Middle Knot in its credentials, you can go see for yourself at BRIDGES.”

“That still doesn’t tell me what you were doing with Higgs,” Fragile says through gritted teeth, noticing that her fingers slightly twitched around the trigger, “If you don’t tell me right now—“

“—Look,” You interrupt lowly, sparring a warning glare, “As his captive, Higgs is supposedly keeping an eye on me, so I don’t think being out here in the open is a great idea.”

You immediately catch the glare of caution that crosses against your gazes, but you honestly could not give a fuck about it. The thing that you worry about more than Fragile’s gun is the possibility that Higgs was indeed watching you two. _You’re not a heartless person,_ as you always have to remind people who tell you otherwise, _you just want to stay out of trouble_ —even if it means having to shut people out to do so. However, having Fragile’s blood on your hands is not at all on your agenda, and you know that Higgs will never stop reminding you about it if he does get the opportune moment.

Getting out of here was the best chance to get what you both want; privacy, answers, and both of your lives kept away from being stolen by Higgs.

“I’m not gonna try to hurt or lie to you when you have the gun here,” You roll your eyes, beckoning with an impatient hand back towards the Distribution center, “If you’re half as smart as I think you are; you’ll follow me. Otherwise, you’re giving Higgs another win and another person’s death on your conscience.”

You can see Fragile’s hardened and flustered expression faltering before taking this great leap of faith. The hand you extend for her is almost kind, but _smartly_ , she doesn’t take it and is already going ahead. You point your chin higher to the sky, trying to feel within this tense atmosphere of the foreboding presence of Higgs—but instead, you feel nothing. 

_Seriously…son of a bitch._

You haven’t heard much of Fragile’s company itself, despite being a porter. They usually kept to themselves and tended to not associate with BRIDGES or freelancers— _a snobby reputation,_ the lot of them—but you weren’t really in a position to judge. As far as you knew, you both shared the tendency of not caring about whether or not the UCA is connected again. People just need supplies, and you both have taken the mantle to deliver them; as long as there was payment involved. Fragile didn’t seem snobbish, especially not at this moment, just exceptionally hardened through a very difficult emotional toll; and you _cannot_ blame her. 

The question is; **_why?_** Why would she care about whether or not she saw you with Higgs after the destruction of Middle Knot? Was she just worried about the payment being lesser now that there were less American clients? Yet, you scratched that possibility from the list—she talked about him as if she knew him; they had some form of history and you assumed that it was a bad one.

_Betraying and killing_ , you think again, _typical of Higgs._

Fragile checks every corner— _and strangely the mirror_ —of the private room before sitting down on the mattress. You don’t move once she makes her rounds, as she is understandably cautious of her surroundings. Higgs had ears, but you assume that these walls are thick. _Then again_ , you think, _Higgs did have a pretty thick skull already._ Fragile is still holding the gun as she takes her seat, using her other sleeve to wipe away the stained tears that had dampened upon her cheeks. You don’t bother giving her a spare cloth— _she won’t accept it_ —you know that she doesn’t trust you yet. So, you let her have her space.

And then, unsurprisingly, you’re met with a bitter glare.

“So?” She raises her shoulders expectantly, “Tell me. Everything you know and how you got involved with Higgs.”

“Well, like I said; I was going to Middle Knot City and then I saw him watching it get blown up,” You recounted slowly, frowning softly as you leaned back against the wall, “Eventually he saw me and, for some reason, he decides ‘ _hey, I’m gonna be even more of an asshole after destroying a whole entire fucking city and invade an innocent bystander’s personal space and make them watch it with me!’,”_

You shake your head with an exasperated groan, completely unaware of the rather astonished expression that crosses Fragile’s face, “I tried to keep him in the area so he could be arrested by BRIDGES but that didn’t work, _I_ ended up getting caught. After that, I accepted a request delivery order for him while he was under an alias. I’m such a fucking idiot…I ended up getting held hostage right in _his_ bunker, kept me there for days and made me live off of one pizza. _Motherfucker.”_

“Higgs eats _pizza?”_ You look back at Fragile and almost snort.

“Out of everything I’ve just told you, that’s the one question you want to ask?”

Then again, you _did_ catch Higgs himself off guard by asking about his eyebrows.

“How do I know I can believe what you’re saying?” Fragile asks as she removes herself from the bed, frowning softly as she begins to stride closer towards you, “I trusted Higgs and let him work with my company. Then, he betrays me, delivering a bomb that blows up a city. How do I know that you’re not going to ally with him? That you won’t fall under him so easily?”

You chuckle bitterly, shrugging at her needless caution, “Clearly, we don’t know each other well enough yet.”

Fragile almost smiles in agreement, _“Clearly.”_

“I’m just a porter who makes a habit of staying out of trouble, it’s kind of part of the job. I’ve learned that sticking my neck out is just asking to lose my head entirely, so falling prey to a moron like Higgs is the least of your problems,” You explain smoothly, finding yourself partially stunned upon being graced with a little and albeit weary smile from Fragile who seems appeased, “I’ll contact you the next time he shows up. He has a tendency to do that. He may be a moron but he’s smart enough not to stay at the bunker, especially not now.”

_Bonds,_ you think suddenly, _connections with others are somehow everywhere._ Things are beginning to make sense on a scale that you’ve never recognized, and it almost scares you that you’re left oblivious for what comes next. Higgs’ words are echoing in the back of your mind and you hate that he’s right; porters _are_ afraid of getting too close with others—Fragile doesn’t seem to have a firmer mind around it, she’s not a porter, really—and you dislike the creeping sensation of his tongue slithering across your skin around. You _shiver_ — _why do you **shiver**_ —and attempt to mask your chill by flashing a meager smile at her. Fragile doesn’t seem to understand, but she knows you mean well. 

Her hand stretches open and a peculiar umbrella appears with a flutter of chiral sparks. The tears that drip down your face are black, as usual, but you don’t let her see when she turns back to you. Being affiliated with a sufferer is starting to become the norm, _against your parent’s wishes._ Some part of you wants to bite back and say that they were wrong—that not all of them were as bad as they think they are—however, you remember that the leader of a fucking terrorist group with the highest level of DOOMs you’d ever seen has forced you into this predicament. 

You no longer blame yourself for it because you’re a porter, you blame _Higgs_ and his knack for bothering you with his hidden and annoying agendas. 

Fragile gives a wave, and lowers her umbrella, “Having the same enemy does not make us friends.”

You smile a little and nod, “Good. Glad to know we’re on the same page.”

She makes a jump to her Beach and she’s out of your sight—leaving you completely alone. You stay still within this silence before peeling away from the wall and climb right into bed with a strange flood of exhaust pouring through your body.

_Fuck this_ , you think again, _I’m staying another night._

An overwhelmingly shocking dream plagues your sleep and you wake up drenched in cold sweat and flushed skin during the middle of the night. 

You’re left shivering until morning from the feeling of Higgs’ tongue run across the bottom of your trembling lip.


	5. Gadabout「5」

## 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝, 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞―𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇!

_Holy shit, you’re **free.**_

The realization had hit you once you emerged from the BRIDGES autonomous platform—luckily no one was greeting you with a gun this time—and you couldn’t be more thrilled to get back to work. You’ve caught some glimpses of some direct request orders back up in Mountain Knot, and you agreed with no reluctance that you shouldn’t deny getting back to the bunker anymore. Strapping yourself in this new set of gear and a few pieces of cargo to be delivered— _which took you the entire morning to get used to_ —you took your first steps of newfound and safe freedom. There had been numerous porters surrounding the terminal this afternoon. Normally, you didn’t mind since they weren’t bothering you on the way out with hapless conversation, but with what was going on that somehow decided to get you involved, you couldn’t help but do a tiny bit of eavesdropping on their conversation—trying to make it seem like you were just busy tying your boots. 

“Did you hear?” One of the porters spoke in a hushed tone to his companions, “Fragile and her express company were allegedly behind the destruction of Middle Knot.”

Another snorted, “How could that lot nuke an entire city? They’re not the type to work with Homo Demens.”

“Doesn’t seem like it, but they are; Fragile delivered their bomb right into the city. She came out with a speech and everything—but of course, it’s a load of horse-shit.”

_So_ , you finally thought, rising from your knees, _that’s what happened then._

Fragile didn’t tell you explicitly about what her deal was with Higgs, and you knew that it was painful for her to talk about; a freshly cut wound that you almost jabbed your fingers right into. A small part of you felt sorry for her, that she didn’t really deserve the shit that she was getting—being misunderstood from a mistake. But you swallowed down the pity that she didn’t need; Fragile had the mien of a collected and strong woman, she could handle herself. It was Higgs you should’ve been thinking about. Some glare of rancor pointed to the sky, and you imagined that you were directing it to the stupid particle— _wherever the fuck he was_ —and sighed angrily as you walked out of the Distribution Center. The journey would take at least a day, but you didn’t give a fuck. 

A dollop of the sun rested on the tip of your nose, bringing a flushed warmth that had been much more welcoming than the heat ghosting over your sweated skin last night. The dream, _that fucking dream,_ you scowled at the bite of a breeze brushing against your flushed cheeks, _what the fuck was up with that? That’ll **never** fucking happen, not even if the world was ending. Nope._

You have a habit of forgetting most parts of your dream, but cursedly, you can’t shake away what had transpired between that fucking moron and yourself in a pit of hot black; trapped in a tar pit and acting on heinous intimate gestures that made your skin writhe with goosebumps. _His tongue_ —the bottom half of your lips burns when you swiped your tongue across it— _you can still feel it running there._ You shook your head with a furious countenance as you notice that you’re letting that bastard fluster you with the nonexistent bane of perverse imagery. A ragged groan flies right out of your chest and you don’t care if anyone near you heard.

_“Fucking—Stupid bastard! Making me fucking—who the fuck does he think he fucking is—ugh!”_

The wind carries your rampant profanities on for miles, and the group of porters from the Distribution Center’s terminal confusedly look to the sky and wonder if nearby BTs could swear.

You’re smart in choosing your routes around America when making deliveries, but you’re slightly disappointed that despite how many times and how much you’ve done with your job; there’s not many advantages offered to you that make the future any easier. Stiffening your upper lip as you make your way to the Weather Station, you begin to dread the heavier clouds that roll across the generous rays of sun; timefall was a bit imminent here, so today’s showers hardly came as a surprise. 

For good measure, you pulled up your hood and continued to rove through the mounds and knolls with wary caution, reminded of the BTs that often wandered throughout this area. Your odradek sensor was working wonders though, flickering every-so often whenever you came climbing up a particularly steep hill where there was no indication of what came next. The analytical surge outlining the area with small holographic symbols made the trip all the more easier, especially when the timefall finally came, and a part of you was happy for being a porter at that moment. 

Life was beginning to look up. 

But you also reminded yourself not to _look_ up.

Alex Weatherstone had been expecting a package of chiral ore. A piece of cargo that, as he put it, would help aid in one of their biggest breakthroughs in timefall this year and was of the utmost importance for him and his team—and some part of you had been unnerved after hearing that—and your only job was to deliver, naturally. He had been wanting another porter to deliver the package, but he reported in his email to you that they’d lost their cycle and most of their other cargo over a cliff. A part of you felt sorry for the poor person, but you felt rather appeased over the fact that you were the second option; Alex was a pretty friendly guy, after all; an easy acquaintance for you. 

But moments later after that calm pause along the terrain, you can’t feel heart swell at this order—or any order, for that matter—and you’re left to wonder blankly why you feel so fucking empty.

“Stop it,” You try to convince yourself, feeling only an ounce more of strange mourn adding onto your head, “Just…fucking stop.”

_What’s wrong?_ Something tells you not to answer, but you pry your eyes open and see the Weather Station in the distance, “I’m…I’m fucking tired.” 

You sigh, a large warm cloud moistening the air on your cheeks that is so explicitly different than the cold wind of timefall. There is a decision that hangs on a thread in your mind; whether or not you should ask Alex for some semblance of shelter that lasts more than the end of the rain. You don’t want to be a leeching moron— _fuck no, you’d rather sit under timefall naked_ —but something tells you that you should entrust the other pieces of cargo to some other porters and just cancel today.

Then your head reels in an echoing voice dripping in sweet poison.

_Go home?_ The words breathe hotly over your lips. _Are you ready to go home to that lonely little bunker?_

**_Fucking—!_ **

You snap your eyes open.

_No,_ you immediately thought with a warning scowl, then you’re just letting Higgs have an excuse for his bitch-ass to boast.

You finally came up to the building with multiple lamp posts that shine a terrible yellow. The hues are harsh and almost neon, and about ten feet away from the building with your eyes slightly craned to the direction of the snowy mountain ridges. You can already see the rolling end of the greying timefall storm. That immediately shoots down any chance of holding a topic of conversation that you would probably have with Alex, but once you activate the terminal’s scanner with your presence, your desire to give a fuck is gone up in smoke. You slide the package of chiral ore onto the automated shelf and wince when the mechanical clanking hits against your ears as it descends upward and downward. 

_“Well, look who it is,”_ A fragmented and electrical voice greets you from behind, and you turn to raise a brow at the holographic project of Alex who smiles, _“And here I thought you’ve got yourself snatched up by a BT. You should’ve called us; we were worried about you.”_

_“BT?”_ You snort, shaking your head, “Jesus, I wish. If that’d been the case then I would’ve stayed an extra day in bed. I would’ve liked the sleep.”

Alex folds his arms over his chest and offers an airy laugh, _“If you did, then you’d be missing out on twenty extra likes. Not like you’d care though.”_

You shrug innocently and give a wry smile. _Likes and dislikes_ —you don’t really mind about that whole system. Sure, it did affect your rep and how much deliveries can come piling up on your agendas; especially with the benefit of extra money that can be made, but it’s a complete shit show on your whole outlook of yourself. Delivering cargo is just walking and getting to places, you don’t need a score for it. Thankfully, the other preppers and facilities seem to grasp the idea and offer their perceptions of you as a person instead that wasn’t based on a like system. That’s all you could ask for, really, and it made it a hell of a lot easier of who to be careful of on the job. Clients do have their own reps, as well. 

You’re hit with the bitter reminder that clients can be _terrorists_ , apparently. 

_“I heard about what happened to you in Middle Knot,”_ Alex’s voice rises again and in a newfound concern, bringing you from your thoughts with wide blinking eyes, _“You weren’t injured from the blast, right? If you came here on a limp—“_

“—No, no,” You shake your head with an unkempt smile slanting across your mouth, trying to mask what transpired afterward could reveal unwanted and concerning visible stress, “I’m perfectly fine. I’m just looking forward to going back to Mountain Knot. My folks…is _uh_ …they’re waiting on me.”

Your words trail away in a slower drawl as you realize that Alex’s smile was strangely getting wider. You’re beginning to question whether or not you were the only sane person left on the planet. Perception on friendly encounters is a rather tricky and fickle thing, you can hardly tell what kinds of favors could be brewing up since you don’t often have many kind ones offered to you. As you’re still remaining in the dark of what Alex could be suggesting to you, your head perks up at the sound of the nearby door being unlocked and— _the **real**_ —Alex stepping outside to meet you, holding a thin slip of paper. It takes a huge amount of time to adjust, not seeing Alex as a transmission hologram as a porter’s habit, but you find your voice anyway—albeit, hoarsely. 

“Dude?” You ask flummoxed as Alex offers a giant beaming smile, “I already delivered your cargo, man. If you want me to check if I damaged it or if it’s a bomb or anything—“

“—What?” Alex’s laugh heaves through his chest, almost looking incredulously upon your unknown panic, “It’s not about the cargo—Look, you just survived and witnessed the destruction of an entire city from a **_nuke_**. I mean, I’m sure you rested, but have you ever recovered? _Emotionally?_ I read the BRIDGES reports on your investigation and for some reason, you disappear for four days,”

_What the fuck?_ Your head jerks back with bewildered eyes, _Higgs kept you in the bunker for **FOUR** days!?_

“From what I’ve heard about your parents—the Hunter and the Botanist—I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want you to be traveling on foot, especially not after what happened. But with _this,”_ He waves the slip of paper in front of your face eagerly, “This’ll make your job and getting home a whole lot easier.”

You hesitantly take the slip of paper and look at it with raised brows—it’s cut out into a peculiar shape—and you cannot hold back the giddy smile stretching across your lips, “A lion? A picture of an animal is going to get me through this emotional crisis?”

“People have done similar methods back in the day. One look at a cute dog and then— _boom._ Their days were instantly better. Though, for someone as… _hardcore_ as you, I’m pretty sure it’ll take some getting used to.” Alex chuckles teasingly, while you, on the other hand, hum flatly.

“Look, just because I’m hardcore doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate cute animals,” That earned a surprised harrumph, “But how is this supposed to make my job easier?”

When Alex doesn’t reply and points behind you, it seems like life has been undulating on you. Not only has the timefall storm finally let up, but there was a familiarly-shaped mechanism sitting on the entryway. Alex nudges you closer with a careful push, ushering your stiff body closer towards a— _oh, my god, no fucking way_ —a goddamn fucking reverse trike. _What the fuck? Oh…oh, no. No, no. **Kindness**. Oh, god._

You veer your head around to Alex who was afraid for a second that you suffered from some whiplash, but chose to laugh directly in your face. You were rather expressive—so either you were showing your usually stone-cold-betty face or your eyes must’ve fallen right out of their eyelids. Alex walks right past you and peels the adhesive paper off, slapping the lion on the side of the trike. It’s a sticker, you realize, this _sly_ _motherfucker—_

“You’ve helped us a lot through the years,” You don’t look at Alex as you’re too enthralled by the bike, tracing your fingers along the rubber handles, “I know acts of charity isn’t really essential for porters, but if you just went up and died on us… _y’know_ …shit wouldn’t get done as fast if you weren’t helping out; risking your life out there for us. The point is; _thank you.”_

Life really is undulating on you, isn’t it? These acts of kindness really were just life’s way of apologizing for making you meet that lunatic, Higgs.

You wonder if that warm appreciation raw in your chest was for the bike or Higgs.

There was wind and memories, acting like two different primordial entities, and their single purpose than sweeping through this hellish Earth was to make you feel so much colder. It hasn’t scraped the light from your eyes just yet though, but you didn’t stop yourself once you shifted the gears of the vehicle and picked up speed. The reverse trike does wonders getting you across the last western-half of the central region just when the sun had come to its warmest zenith. You were a little disappointed when you couldn’t feel it. You haven’t handled one of these vehicles for a while now— _almost a full year_ —so getting through the snowy shores of the ranging inclines was particularly difficult. Different ways of transport didn’t come to you so easily now, and some faint part of yourself was just coming to grips of being tired of it. 

Putting your head back into your job, however, you shrugged off the petty spite and tucked your head into your uniform tighter around your shoulders, trying to compensate for your lack of proper winter clothes with only your heated breath and shivering clutches. Yet, you had hopes for the evening; a trip to the Falling Snow’s Invigorating Waters was waiting for you after making your next delivery for the Roboticist—surely, an easy trip with a knack for avoiding trouble; everything was going so smoothly today.

_Just a little farther,_ you encouraged yourself. 

Half of the time, you don’t entirely know the purpose of the packages you deliver. The meager understanding that had slowly become the norm was something that unnerved you these days, but you stay silent and keep your focus on your work. A substantial amount of fuck you’s came from your mouth whenever people say otherwise; being compliant is not being yourself. You _know_ this yet you do it anyway. The being that you’ve force to become and who you want to be has become inextricable and complicated—you’re aware of this because that’s how you survived Higgs, _for fuck’s sake,_ you questioned his nonexistent eyebrows just when he was about to throw you into the flames. The domineering side of you made you stand your ground that night after Middle Knot, and kept pushing yourself to deliver the cargo for the Roboticist. Sure, you couldn’t give a shit whether or not these tentative thoughts had claimed hours of your sleep, but your mind was restless.

Your queries will go unanswered, but you idle enough along the spring to know that it deeply bothers you.

You don’t undress completely but instead let your legs dangle in the water. It’s scalding and sends pleasant shivers tingling up your back, coldish bumps of gooseflesh riddling up each side of your arms, though it isn’t strong enough to vanquish the heated ecstasy. Snowflakes fall on the end of your lashes. There’s not enough caution to make you fear that the powdered white might be a frozen form of timefall—maybe because you’re too captured by the scenic pristine beauty—but you peel off your gloves and let a few puffs land on the back of your hand and melt into dew-like drops. 

The question on whether or not these were moments of peace or just stalls to your stress lingered at the back of your mind—but soon, sleep replaces every bit of it.

The call of slumber hits and swallows you without letting you watch that last snowflake melt. Your head slumps over your shoulders and you can feel your spine divot forward, as if you’re involuntarily launching yourself into this void of unconscious black. It’s soothing, you thought, it’s a hell of a lot better than being chained to the end of a bed for four days—might as well enjoy it. The snow sounds like the lighter tones of thunder, where it leaves you wondering if this weather could even create any sound. 

The waters don’t move.

Yet, somehow, you can hear waves.

For the first time in years, fear stalls your heart.

Your eyes snap open to find that you’re _fucking_ _**here.**_

_You’re at the Beach._

The garish color of snow is not here anymore, you’re no longer knee-deep in the steaming spring—but standing within cold and blackened salt-water. There is a different cold biting at your cheeks, one that brings a bigger chill in you as you stumble away from these dark waters. There is no stability nor proper balance in your movements anymore, and you come close to falling— _drowning_ —within these gray shores. All you can see within your tunneling periphery is the inky silhouettes of deceased and rotting marine life; whales in massive size beached and stranded here, small fish gathering at your feet that frightens you from their slimy scales, and your fingers prick along the upturned backsides of a crab’s claw.

_Fuck. No…No, no, no!_

_You’re at the Beach. Fuck. Fuck. **Fuck.**_

The dropping of your heart inside your stomach had been the first anticipating sign of this wretched reality. You had crossed too far from within the void of unconscious imagery and somehow ended up here in this purgatory; the one thing that instilled fear within this awful life. You’ve heard too many stories about this place from other passing—and mostly dead—porters and knew the consequences of coming here with pernicious connections. 

It hits you instantaneously.

It came as no surprise that _**Higgs**_ was your connection; the strand that had been tied that you were desperately trying to sever. And when you awoke standing on the Beach, alone and oddly draped by Higgs’ tepid black cloak, you’ve become overwhelmed and ensnared by anger and distress. These fucking whales are making your fears worsen, and you hiss perturbed through your teeth when you find a dead fish’s translucent dorsal fin touching your bare feet. It’s slimy and dead and— _oh, for fuck’s sake!_ You rip the hood off of your head and take a few seconds to adjust to this new periphery. The sky is rolling with a distant grey storm, and you suspect that it is timefall, making your inability to think on your feet worsen. It syncs with the pace of your breath, coming in short and leaves your lips in a heaving cloud. Your chest tightens as you realize that Higgs could either be watching or deaf all of this; while you’re fucking _**stranded**_ on the Beach.

Still, that doesn’t stop you from trying to attempt to reach him.

_“Higgs!”_ You shout angrily, nose pointed to the sky in hopes of shattering the clouded barriers of this godforsaken place, “Higgs! Do you hear me!? Wake your bitch-ass up and get me the fuck out of here!” 

What follows is only the loud sardonic crashing of waves that roll in front of your feet. You jump away from the shore when the water stretches far enough to rise above your ankles, and it was as if the sea itself was made of acidic venom. Your patience is thinning by the second, and you’re determined that by the time you wake up— _if you wake up_ —you’ll be able to relieve Higgs’ head, that was as big as his ego, off of his shoulders. 

“Higgs!” You roar again, tugging at the roots of your hair desperately, tears threatening to sting the corner of your narrowed eyes, “Higgs! For _fuck’s_ —for god’s sake! _Higgs!_ Wake up!” 

_Don’t leave me,_ you plead silently, doing what you can of your voice to overpower your whimpering thoughts, _don’t leave me stranded in this place. I don’t want to be here alone. I can’t—I don’t want to—Higgs!_

You run. You don’t know where you’ll end up or how far you get, but you run faster than you ever had in your life—even during a BT encounter, you move surreptitiously on slower feet. There is no sign of life anywhere around you, nothing but black shores with shadowy figures that aren’t from your world among the breathing and living—and you wonder for a second if it’s possible that you had fucking _joined_ them.

In that moment, the cold memories lay a siege upon your nerves that seemed to have short-circuit. You stop on hard heels upon the black sand that shifts. The Beach had been tormenting you with this never-ending race of clustering thoughts by taking corporeal form; the figures of your parents in the distance, just farther along the black shore, had been standing there and playing out that memory. You hadn’t seen the faces of your parents for so long, it terrified you to see them now. The you that had looked ten-years-old didn’t affect you any differently, and all you can do is watch.

_Higgs,_ you call out in your head, deciding that you know your voice here won’t reach him, _Higgs, get me out of here._

Your pace quickens when you hear the sound of your parents’ laughter—then their _screams_. 

_**Higgs!**_

“Whoa, there,” A voice—not entirely new—makes you move across the black sand immediately in a jolt, “About time I found you.”

You turn incredulously, somehow feeling graced and blessed to be in the presence of the bastard who put you here in the first place, and you’re tipping the scales of whether or not you should thank him for putting an end to your panic or kick him in the balls. His smug face incenses you further. Higgs doesn’t have his mask here, you assume that he doesn’t need it in a place like this, but some morbid part of you wishes he had it on. He’s smiling, knowing that you’d react like this if you found yourself here, even if you hadn’t told him—but you’re partly on the winning side; you haven’t cracked completely into tears just yet.

“What the fuck—“ You bash your fists into his chests but he catches your wrists midway, but it doesn’t stop you from spiraling out in anger, and it amplifies terribly when you see him smiling down at you with a raise in those ridiculous, non-existent tattooed eyebrows, “—You fucking bastard. You took me here and you fucking— _Shit!_ How could—”

Higgs works quickly to adjust his grip on your wrists within a single hand, shushing you gently through puckered lips as he brought you needlessly and tenaciously closer to him—flushed and holding each other—but you immediately begin to struggle out of his mordant embrace, “—Little bird, you were singing my name in your sleep. I couldn’t ignore your song so easily…Well, _I could’ve._ But I just wanted to see your sweet, sweet misery. A rare sight to behold with wings like yours.”

“Enough of this shit,” You snapped cholericly, glowering up at him, “Wake me up.”

You try to best him in strength, attempting to pry yourself from his grip, and you’re determined to produce a different outcome than the time you two first met—how you almost beat him before he ran off. Higgs, however, doesn’t budge from this—he doesn’t move here—he rides through the motions of your quarrels before reaching a hand behind to cradle the back of your head firmly, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, bringing you impossibly— _and uninvitedly_ —closer. 

“Shh, shh…” His lips reach the shell of your ear, beginning to struggle to reach downwards and step on his feet, “Always wanting to fly so damn high…I’d love to take you back, darlin’, I would. But wouldn’t you love to stay here and enjoy the view?”

“The last time you said that; you made me watch Middle Knot go up in flames,” You huff with the low tones of a growl, “Take me—“

“—I brought you here for a reason, you know,” Higgs’ voice stops you, as it sounds so unusually sedate, and the expression that he shows you zips your mouth up immediately, “I wanted to keep this short, I’ve got a lot of pressing matters to attend to these days. The eve of extinction is an… _impatient lady,”_

You don’t know what the fuck that means, but it does wonders to unsettle you.

“ _My_ patience, on the other hand…well…I thought you’d feel so glad to see me,” He says in a much more classically suave tone, “But now I realize that you only felt _safe.”_

“I know you didn’t make me come here for the accent, Higgs,” You tell him flatly, frowning, “And I don’t want to stay for the existential crisis. Just get on with it and leave me alone.”

Higgs seems to adore this compliancy glaring out of you—like you’ve become the warm sun that this Beach was missing—and little docile and annoyed you is beginning to think that maybe you should pin him down and beat the shit out of him. The Beach strangely becomes only your surroundings, but that doesn’t make you any less scared of what it can bring—the image of your parents is gone yet Higgs remains. You feel him slip away, feeling the pads of his gloved fingers swipe from behind your neck and let you spin to face him. The dream of Higgs and you in a heated tar pit— _impossibly close and practically desperate for each other’s touch_ —makes your expressive face greatly crease. 

But this time, you do so with different reasons; Higgs has the sticker of the lion on the tip of his finger.

_It isn’t real_ , you remind yourself, _so don’t reach out and take it._

“You get more interesting by the second, little bird,” Higgs examines the picture and your pique with a smooth chuckle, “You give me…interesting ideas.”

A sound rips through this bleak sky, nearly splits it in two. The storm that is imminent with timefall shatters from the bellowing sound that makes you jump right into Higgs’ arms that welcome you tightly. It takes a second to register what you had just done, but you only try to look for the source. Strangely, for _some fucking goddamn reason_ , you don’t pull away; you hold him closer upon seeing a gargantuan leonine tar-beast with the face of gold stalking along the lighter shores.

_Is that a fucking—Holy! It’s a fucking **BT!**_

When it roars again, you’re ripped away from the tides that had almost swallowed you. Your body rockets awake, shooting upward and ultimately slipping into a pool of scalding water that muffles and converts your terrified scream into a flurry of bubbles. You breach the surface, wildly waving your arms along the streaks of cold wind as you find yourself back in the hot springs. Higgs is gone, the BT is gone, your parents are gone. The Beach is gone, and that thought alone makes you feel grateful to be alive.

_Son of a bitch_ , you think again, _you’re **not** free._


	6. Solivagant「6」

## 𝐎𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬

_**Goddamnit** , that didn’t take long._

The bunker looks just like how you had left it. You were half-expecting the area surrounding the premises to be overridden with Homo Demens armed to teeth, ready to shoot you or MULEs in the process of stealing and raiding whatever you had left behind for themselves. The snow leaves no trace of life but your own, your footprints are deep from your heels but you dread the fact that it doesn’t make trekking any faster. There is some semblance of the sun behind the darker billows, like some spiritual light that acts as your guide through the endless fucking piles of snow. You can’t bring yourself to thank it when you finally step through the entrance.

There’s still the holographic BRIDGES sign spinning upon your phasing figure, but you involuntarily think of Fragile’s company instead. Once you enter the sensor ring’s radius, there is a familiar humming that resounds through the snow crested mountains protruding nearby—but somehow that makes your pace faster towards the tunneling entrance. The credentials in your strand registers with your presence and you hastily make your way down the flight of stairs.

_Nope, no one’s here_ , you think apprehensively, _nope, nope, nope._

You swing open the door and are hit with the scent of earthy tones and lingering gunpowder; the smell of home. The bunker is predictably silent, there is no whispering of the flowers that used to greet you as a child, as your mother so infuriatingly refuted back in the day. From muscle-memory, you remove your shoes at the doorway, shifting your head around your shoulders to check if there was anything unusual hanging above your head. You seemed to pick off your father’s habits of being too overly-cautious, but after what happened with you and Higgs on the Beach, you find yourself searching the entire bunker for at least an hour. 

Two bedrooms and yet, you still settle with yours. You don’t have a knack for collecting things, not like your mother with her potted plants that have dried and withered or the collection of hunting weapons rusting and brittle belonging to your father—you didn’t look forward to being a person they wanted you to be—and it angered them. What you did have to appease that anger was a small pet-farm of cryptobiotes— _no judging, they’re cute_ —and you immediately released them from their tank and let them float within the comfort of your room as they rose from their mini coral growths.

“Hi, Horns,” You whispered to the biggest cryptobiote, letting his many plump appendages run along the length of your palm, “I missed you.”

Claws and Fang drifted aimlessly near your ceiling, and you were quite soothed by their hushed chittering. You often wondered what kind of things they were thinking and saying when you were younger, if they were smart enough to think about the wonders of this vast unknown world inhabited by humans or what rock they should move to and sleep in the next hour. When you slept, you didn’t have the fear of dreaming. You figured that the nightmare fuel tank was empty and that Higgs would be back to tormenting his fellow terrorists with other criminal agendas. There was no sound in your breath, and you were grateful—you feared too much that it would sound as panicked as you were like on the Beach. 

As you sat silently crossed-legged on the sofa, slowly ingesting on MRE saltines rather than banal pizzas, you kept thinking about Higgs and his deal with Fragile. Speaking of which, you should’ve called her immediately after you met him on… _his Beach._ What would you say to her though? Do people with DOOMs have a way of connecting to other people’s beaches? If he found you based on your call to him alone, could you two get the jump on him? 

_Fuck it_ , you thought after a while, you were gonna have to call her eventually.

“Fragile,” You called out with a frown, eyes scraping over the corners of your living room in hopes that she was listening somehow, “Fragile? Can you hear me?”

A ponderous silence filled the room, and then a chiral jump had beckoned you straight out of the cushions. At the far end of the room stood Fragile herself, closing her umbrella and tucking it at her side. As you stared upon her bewilderedly, you noticed that she had been carrying a duffle bag—marked with her company’s logo. With the keen perception as a porter, it looked particularly heavy. She must’ve been busy, you thought, I should make this quick. And, luckily, Fragile seemed to have the same idea—the expression she gave you was rather… _impatient_ , but she greeted you with a nod, half-assing the ghostly smile.

“You have an update?”

“Kind of,” You answered with some increment of dejection, sighing roughly, “I saw Higgs recently, right before I came up here to my bunker. Oh, _um_ …welcome, by the way.”

Fragile’s lashes flutter rapidly for a moment before her eyes entirely take in her surroundings. Your eyes follow her line of sight, almost studying with her, and took in the scattered and dusty collection of empty shotgun shells, many misshaped stones used for knife sharpening, and it all had greatly contrasted with the delicacy of your mother’s succulents sitting in various spots of the room—wherever was empty. You discern that knot tightening in your stomach—wondering what she thought about the interior of your home, for some reason—and you try to mask such a paltry feeling with a hospitable smile. Your teeth bare but Fragile’s does first, and you can hear a small airy chuckle reverberate from her chest; a laugh that you immediately perceive that such a thing does not come from her often.

“It’s quaint,” She says as she turns back to you, and you pretend to ignore the clutch on the bag’s strap grip a little tighter, “I feel rude…I should’ve rang the doorbell.”

“It’s okay. There’s no need; nobody would’ve opened it, anyway. I’m just really fucking glad you’re here,” You press slightly, running a hand through your hair and wring out the unkempt strands, “Listen, I didn’t just _see_ Higgs. I…I woke up. He made me wake up—he brought me there for some reason. He made me come to _him_ , Fragile. I didn’t—I _don’t_ understand why, but—“

“—Where exactly did he take you?” She asks, holding a hand outward to reach out and calm your rising, frazzled nerves that had shaken the tips of your fingers.

It takes a while from your tongue rolling behind the top row of your teeth, you try to still your breath and when you do so, you’re hit with the vibration of your own chest that makes you shudder from the intensity— _why were you so scared_ —it was just an answer, “He took me to the Beach.”

Fragile seems to understand now, yet at the same time, she doesn’t. She doesn’t nod or shake her head; her face doesn’t express outright confusion nor does it twist into a deliberate snarl. The eyes that trail down to the floor in a prudent gaze makes you all the more nervous; there’s something that she’s not telling you. But you fight every morsel of yourself that makes you want to jump on her ass and get some real answers. Even though she might make a chiral jump, you still would like your knuckles to dent something. The price to pay for clarity is still lost on you, and you’re willing to do _almost_ anything, at this point. 

You’ve had enough of this shit, you just want your life back where people aren’t trying to make your day a living hell by just talking to you—you have enough _non-terrorist-or-big-shot_ assholes like that, anyway.

“What did he show or do to you?” She says, finally finding her hoarse voice, “What exactly did he say to you?”

You shrug your shoulders, a furrowed twist forming upon your brow, “He… _held_ me. It was the weirdest…grossest fucking thing…He told me that he brought me there for a reason but that he was busy with terrorist shit—almost killed me with a fucking— _lion_ —a BT lion…and…”

_What was it that he said? Did you hear him right? What did it mean?_

Fragile stepped forward, her impatience now visible through her hardened eyes, “What? What did he say?”

It was like something was possessing you to say the phrase inevitably—in the gentlest and most horrific way possible—as if someone else was speaking through you, and maybe that’s how you echoed it so easily, “He said that the eve of extinction…was an impatient lady.”

You didn’t know what it meant when Higgs said it, and you should’ve known that you wouldn’t have when you said it yourself. Being away from the Beach had an unusual toll in the corners of your inured soul. You have suffered much, many and a great deal you had received and given back to in the span of your life. Though you’re sure that you’d have plenty more to give, your presence on the Beach for the first time had damaged that confidence greatly. That place that stretches to beyond the dead has its eyes on the shores, watching you with that foreboding essence and whispering in silent tiding winds that you would end up there on the black sands sometime during the future. 

_**Forever.** _

You told yourself not to be frightened, and you weren’t— _not yet,_ at least. If Higgs was gone first, then you’d have nothing to worry about. But in the end, you couldn’t say for certain if it was even considered a plan. And unfortunately, you’re not like Fragile; you don’t have DOOMs to support your hopeful imitation of clairvoyance. 

“I have some information to share, too,” Fragile speaks up, where you return to subconsciousness and blink widely at her, “I know why Higgs didn’t come to meet you in person and only on the Beach.”

“You do?” 

Fragile frowns, her eyes lowering to stare—almost shamefully—at her shoes, and it heightens your concern, “You know my company, yes? Fragile Express… _handled with love._ I’m afraid that Higgs is catching onto its true vulnerabilities; I think he’s beginning to catch on that I know what he did…what he’s going to do. There’s an uncatalogued shipment heading to South Knot tomorrow, and I intend to follow it.”

Fragile watches and knows the look of agreement that you express, giving her a firm nod, “That fucker’s probably sending in another nuke. Whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good. You’ll follow him?”

“As much as I can,” Fragile replies, unfolding her umbrella and lifting the sheer panels over her head, “You are surprisingly calm with all this. You managed to get on Higgs’ neutral side by going to his Beach and getting yourself supervised…and yet you return here. You just don’t seem to care.”

“Ah, the correct phrase is; _not giving a fuck,”_ You smile chastely, “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve ran out of fucks to give after I gave my first fuck.”

That was the first time Fragile laughed before teleporting away, and _somehow_ , you found yourself giggling, too.

It’s been a leisurely two days since the conversation with Fragile and you were beginning to wonder how she was doing. You didn’t want to risk jeopardizing her operations, so you didn’t call her—especially and begrudgingly at night. The world seemed still from the outside, unmoving. A little portion of your soul told you that it was a difference that you should appreciate since you were a porter who was always on the move, but you ended up closing the curtains after the first nightfall—the churning in your stomach edging you to make your vomit before bed. Claws and Fangs were getting along with you again after being away for so long, while Horns was still just as affectionate. Although you knew that they attempted to cease your loneliness, you forced yourself to sleep often when the illegible consistent chattering became too much.

On the newsfeed during the second morning, there was an urgent alert to all city districts that Middle Knot was officially registered as a crater. The email that Higgs had received during your time in the bunker made it seem like the public delivered the message like a love letter—it wasn’t labeled destroyed or gone from the UCA permanently—it was just labeled as a crater. You would’ve settled for less if you hadn’t remembered that there were lives who perished under those flames, and you ultimately shut off the chiral newsfeed and drank your father’s whiskey in the dark. 

Before you shut it off, you saw that a woman named Amelie had gotten captured in Edge Knot City.

During the mid-afternoon, you were awoken to a familiar sound that resonated throughout your room. It sprung you up in a fast whip out of bed, fearing that the walls of your room had crumbled into detritus and returned to dark sands and swallowed by shadowy shores. As you gathered your quiet surroundings—not finding yourself back on the Beach—you became aware of the alert on your credentials of a new request order awaiting your interaction in the message logs. You don’t know how to feel about taking work lately. You need money, yes, and you’ve already gorged on half of your rations…but doing what Alex had asked and emotionally recovered was a routine that you were finally beginning to accept. 

Yet, you opened the message anyway.

_No_ , you thought, _no fucking way._

𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 : 𝘚 _23-84_ , 𝘗𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘵

𝘚𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 : 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘊𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘗𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘢

**-**

_Dear Miss Soaring Little Porter,_

_I must express my gratitude towards your exceptional job a fortnight ago delivering my team and I such a delicious pizza. Your efforts were exemplary in keeping the contents safe, and I did not expect less. I feel as if I was blessed by the gods of the old world, for you had brought me such joy by gracing me with your pulchritudinous presence, hardly anyone these days sees my face. Once again, it would be an honor if you would once again visit my humble abode, for I am sure that you already know the way. Should you seek accommodations, I will be the utmost thrilled and most generous to spare hospitality._

_Oh, and before I forget…I look forward to giving a proper introduction… names and all._

_Yours eternally,_

_**HM.**_

You groaned irritably and trashed the message, heading straight to bed.

When you awoke for the third morning, you almost decided to follow up on the pizza delivery.

Being left on read—as one elderly person put it—had a tendency to contort the recipient’s feelings toward their abruptly-ended conversation into whiny and bitter resentment. The desire to connect, as you’d call it, seemed to have taken the reins in acting on annoying impulse. The results— _or messages_ —that came into your inbox the next morning was immeasurable, and you were faced with the realization that Higgs wasn’t so busy after all. Seriously, did he not have anything better to do? Especially as a _fucking terrorist?_

Eighty-five new messages delivered in a span of eight hours, ten and a few sent for each hour—half of which had no subject. They were just incessant in making sure that you had either replied or read them. You feared you’d be buried with messages from an annoying terrorist than delivery requests from preppers. Even as you skimmed through most of it half-asleep, you knew that something needed to be done.

You didn’t want to leave the bunker and you didn’t want to contact Higgs, sure, but _fucking **something!**_

‘ _Why are you ignoring me?_ ’, ‘ _Answer, little bird or I’m gonna nuke another city_ ’, ‘ _GTF online, we’re gonna fuck some shit up_ ’. You assumed that the last one was typed out through drunken vigor; the overuse of emojis was really driving the point home. Eventually, all the emails stopped once the texts became completely illegible—you were bordered between being amused and being irritated, and for some reason, that frustrated you. Sure, despite how much Higgs likes to boast about how he’s the greatest of all humanity— _the particle that permeates all of fucking existence_ —he sure could get drunk. The video that he sent you was proof that the guy could get hammered; a celebratory occasion, as you remembered from the original email. Why was this so amusing?

As you finished the last of your father’s whiskey, you had replayed the video at least fifteen times.

It was Higgs stumbling around the Homo Demen’s camp, the framework had been terribly lit by distant lampposts that occasionally flashed the entire camera white, and the constant moving of the camera was almost making you motion-sick. But what made your heart thrum oddly out of lamentable enjoyment was the sound of Higgs’ snickers of laughter that cut close to the microphone.

_“I’m…drunk and I hate…everything,”_ You could hear him slur, and you stifle a chuckle as your lips puckered over the bottle, _“Everything except you and—and pizza, little bird.”_

The camera shoved downwards, showing half of an entire pizza. No matter how many times you watched it, Higgs managed to sink even lower on the bar of your disgust as he grabbed the entire disk in one-gloved fist.

_“You want me to prove—fucking prove it? Look at this—fucking—fuck! Look at this pizza. I’ll drop this pizza—shit—I’ll drop this pizza for you.”_

Higgs chucks the entire pizza disc at a fellow Homo Demen and the recording stops. You decide to delete most of Higgs’ unintelligible messages except for some and the video before blocking him, deciding that it was best that you shouldn’t stay here any longer; Higgs might act on his threats next on a hangover.

When you tried to call Fragile that afternoon, you were beginning to get concerned when you were met with silence. 

During the late evening, you decided to visit your old friend Lockne further east directly in Mountain Knot City. Crawling out of the bunker and from the recently-adjusted comforts that was provided made you a little sad, but as you remembered being committed to your duty as a porter, it was a forced confidence that was just enough to give you a nudge out the door. The journey would only take about an hour if you were quick enough, the snow was especially patchier and thick today, though it wouldn’t entirely be an inconvenience. You had used your mother’s snow boots for the journey, the only non-lethal thing that she could cherish from her husband—the cuffs that hugged around the base of your calf had been kept warm by the woven strands of deer fur. _Yes_ , you were very fortunate indeed. Lockne was considerable in your list of acquaintances, though you admit that you’d be asking too much if you sought out accommodations back. 

It was one of BRIDGES’ personal recommendations after the incident with Middle Knot City. Word goes around and connections were the only visible link of this world, you and Lockne knew each other through shared mechanical work efforts—but it was worth noting that after a while, you realized that you didn’t have that kind of mindset like Lockne and her twin, so you quit and chose a life of solitude. But that didn’t mean that you were on bad terms with either of them, but from what you last heard regarding Lockne’s situation with her sister Mama’s uterus, you assumed that their situation wasn’t at all similar. It was best to just not give a shit, but you almost couldn’t help but give one.

You don’t have DOOMs, you reminded yourself, you don’t have much equipment to dead with the BTs or anything else with the likes of the departed. When you notified Lockne that you were coming down from your bunker, she insisted on setting up a few Cicadas as escorts. However, when you were determined to use your bike instead and reminded her that, quote ‘ _BTs ain’t shit_ ’, she reluctantly let you go on your own. Twisting the handles of your reverse trike and kicking in your heel into the pedal brought the engine to life with a few sputtering and smoking coughs, but following the rough shifting heat blown through your nose, you were on your way down the paved incline so generously left by other porters. 

The road wasn’t peculiarly longer compared to the last time you visited, considering that the road was rather bumpy along the craggy slopes and how you had to force your bike to slow down after being too close to a group of BTs. The engine purred then roared as you crossed their paths, and while the odradek couldn’t exactly assist in helping you see their wispy black humanoid forms, having a general sense of direction seemed enough for you, finally entering the sensor ring of the city. The border pavements weren’t particularly kind on your rear, but you decided not to complain as you finally reached Lockne’s facility. 

After storing your reverse trike into the garage, you stepped inside of the building, eager to be free from the northern chills. From the pathway in, you were met with a few hills of warmer grass, but the sight alone was not enough to dull the icy bite nipping at the tip of your nose and cheeks. You practically ran inside, head swinging and shifting fervently for any sign of your old friend. There were numerous Mountain Knot City BRIDGES faculty members who caught sight of you storming in, practically acting like a lunatic. But once they watched how you finally saw Lockne emerge from one of her lab sectors in the building and gave her a rapid wave, they reluctantly leveled their nerves.

Lockne came by your side and gave you a light embrace, where you had immediately noticed the tiredness in her puffy eyes, “You look like shit. And I don’t use that term lightly.”

“Still just as grumpy as ever, aren’t you?” Lockne flashed the increments of a feigning smirk, but replaced it quickly by a rather intensely concerned scowl, “I heard what happened to you and BRIDGES after Middle Knot, are you okay? Have you eaten? Do you need me to send you—“

“—Jesus, I survive a nuclear explosion once and all these acts of kindness are just suddenly shoved into my face.” 

Lockne was _almost_ perturbed by your sarcasm—keyword, **_almost_**.

Schooling together was the perfect opportunity for you, Lockne, and Mama to put up with each other’s shit. There would be times when the two would put their DOOMs brains together to produce some actual harms in their pranks, where not long after, you’d come back and hit them twice as hard. They were the actual exception of sufferers that you just barely accepted, and they seemed to accept you, too. To some degree, you were happy with making connections. However, after choosing a life of nomadic solitude, the bond that had been forged on broken eggs, wet cardboard forts, and broken glasses of bottle rockets had almost completely diminished. But you were surprised to see that Mama and Lockne’s bond had been completely severed, and not yours. 

Then again, you didn’t want to ask.

“I’m in need of some guidance, Lockne, not kindness.” You said to her sternly, earning an equally determined approving nod as she guided you into the heart of her laboratory.

“That’s the best thing I can give,” She admitted, maneuvering across the room where various BRIDGES approved technologies laid out in a messy and scattered state—Lockne wasn’t always the organized type, “BRIDGES hadn’t sealed the deal yet on my chiral engine, like fossil fuels, they think that it’d be bad synchronicity with timefall. But I don’t need their approval— _pfft_ , idiots.”

“You hear their expedition team got caught in the west this morning?” You sighed whimsically, giving a prolonged sigh as you sank down into one of her office chairs, “The people in the UCA are fucking nuts. Bridget Strand is nuts.”

Lockne gave an innocent shrug, logging into her holographic data panels before entering your present credentials for a new project, “America is a done deal. I’d give them…fifteen more years, tops.”

Something about the way she said that made you feel unnerved—it sounded somewhat familiar so you didn’t wholeheartedly agree with it. Lockne waylaid your concerning progressive thoughts as she came in front of you, gesturing that you’d get off your ass and do your own part. You intended to make an off-brand cufflink, like what all the other BRIDGES members wore. Some intrusive part of you thought that you had modeled them in such a way because of Higgs, but you couldn’t really complain about the design after Lockne had it approved and registered into the fragmented chiral network—some part of it.

“Mama and I…back when we were working together…we were in charge of creating the chiral network for BRIDGES,” Lockne explained, where you had discerned the resentment and sadness in her wavering voice as she spoke of her sister, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t be a part of it either…you’re smart enough. Just as long as you keep your distance…Do what you always do.”

As the calibration of the cufflink had finally connected with the chiral network—where the holographic map gleamed over your arm—you felt a swell of confidence and security as a porter. You now had a map of this _fucked up_ continent, at least what was available to you, and there was a dwindling and faint spark of reassurance that the upturns in life would just keep coming. It was _hope_ , one would call it, and you probably would’ve, too. A thrumming in your chest had riled you enough to eagerly sweep Lockne into a tight yet short embrace. From this form of contact and connection alone, a feat that you had sworn to yourself that you shouldn’t show so carelessly, both of you knew that this was for the better.

Before you left, you had quietly asked for Lockne to at least try one last time to talk to Mama. 

Deep down, you knew she wouldn’t, but you were satisfied enough for the fact that she had begun to think about reconnecting again. 


	7. Fernweh「7」

## 𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬

_This is so fucking **boring**._

After returning to the bunker from Lockne’s facility up in Mountain Knot City, BRIDGES was apparently keeping their eye on you. _A bird’s eye-view_ , you grimaced tightly as you sank deeper into the sofa cushions. There was an implication— _borderline threatening_ —that you were to remain in your bunker for at least five days. It seems that you’ve heightened their irritability by stepping out to procure the off-brand cufflinks that could vaguely connect to the chiral network. The prominent threat they had officially put out was towards the west. It had become priority number one, where the Homo Demens had captured their expedition team who were hoping to rejoin America through the chiral network, _a bunch of stupid idiots_ is what they were. The name Amelie Strand didn’t mean anything to you, so how in the fucking world did she have this much control in her life—even if she was the _president’s daughter,_ that would put her as a higher target than you could ever be. You were the lowest of the low now, and you didn’t have any more fucks to give. 

Through your one-sided connection with Higgs, it was somehow a risk for you to be a porter. Now, that was saying something; to be more afraid of the _living_ than the _dead_. Your job was to fucking risk your life, who the fuck was Amelie and how could she manage to thwart your entire life just by some stupid, bitch-ass, and perverse conversation with a terrorist? Well, you knew if you’d say it out loud, you would realize just how fucked up it really was.

_But still!_ You’re a **_porter!_** Staying at home is so fucking boring!

You’ve had no dreams but the throbbing void of darkness—and that could not have annoyed you more.

“Fragile…” You droned out for what seemed to be the fiftieth time, sprawled out lazily on the couch, “Fr _aaaaaa_ gile? Listen, I know your company’s motto is handled with love, but you’re breaking my fucking heart here.”

It had been at least five days since you had last seen Fragile, or any of her porters running around America lately. It seemed like the only people in the outside world were BRIDGES, MULEs, or Homo Demens—and none of them were even considerable as good company. The life you led was isolated, where connections and bonds were fickle and weak things—your father’s words, not theirs. You found yourself thinking about them a lot lately, going back to old crates down in the basement and peering into old picture albums consisting of your childhood and some precious moments that were taken when you hadn’t yet been born into the world. Wedding photos of America before the Death Stranding; beaches with no dead things, trees that were growing and tall, landscapes that had high-rise buildings and vehicles everywhere, all of these images were fitted into _4x4_ Polaroids. 

You planned to burn all of them on your drunken stupor tonight, eager to break into the liquor cabinet your father has kept locked up for most of your life.

Horns came floating and crawling across your thigh, where Claws and Fang followed, running up the length of your hip. You wondered why you didn’t eat them, maybe because as a child—primarily back before everything went to shit—you would have that insistent phase of getting a pet. The world didn’t have domestic animals, other than wild deers and murders of crows, _fuck that._ Cryptobiotes were cute and lived long enough, so you settled in nicely with their company.

“Where do you think she is, fellas?” You asked softly, rotating the back of your hand as Claws maneuvered throughout the base of each finger, “Do you think she got stuck on the Beach or something? I don’t wanna admit it, but I’m worried for her. ‘M not supposed to have friends on this job but…she seems nice.”

You stopped your incoherent rambling to yawn, plucking Claws from the back of your hand to rub your tired eyes. You frowned sleepily as the song of peaceful slumber had begun to drift through one ear and out of the other, lulling you with the promise that tomorrow just might be better. However, some biting refusal had fought valiantly to stay awake in case Fragile might appear, even though the hopes for it were not high.

“Fragile…” You murmured, your eyes getting insistently heavier, “Fragile…”

The world fell into darkness, and so did you.

_“Higgs…”_

_What the fuck._

That was **definitely** not a name that you wanted to be caught moaning in your sleep. The flare of maintaining your dignity than the sound of the crashing waves had hit your mind first. It took a few moments to process where the fuck you were; taking in the dreadfully scenic view of the Beach’s waves rolling in a pristine white and horrid grey, soaking up your legs and stopping up to your knees where the skin bubbled with sea-foam. The ominous storm rolling in the distance thundered, and only then was it like the firing of the gun that thwarted you back into this sick reality. You spite the name like venom, clamoring up to your feet as you realized that you were on the _fucking_ Beach again.

_“Goddammit!”_ You shouted, your nose automatically pointing towards the sky, “Higgs! You fucking asshole! Seriously!?”

Your heart plunged right into your chest as you saw him in the distance, thigh-deep in the ocean where a beached whale was at his side. The air above was pungent with decay, and you involuntarily clutched the hem of Higgs’ tepid cloak draped around your neck to block out the smell. What you inhaled instead was…rather _**pleasant**_. The aromatic journey stalled your thought process for a while— _it was just so fucking good_ —overcome with a leathery wave, gunpowder that was validity of being a criminal, and the strangest hint of tuberose. You would have never figured that out had it not been for your generous mother.

When you saw him again, your heart dropped into your stomach as he was looking straight at you. His head turned to the side, free of his masks that didn’t hide his face behind a golden jaw. You knew that he was beckoning you, but you didn’t have it in your heart to come closer, preferring that he would make the first move. It was a consistent reminder that you always needed to watch yourself around Higgs. As annoying and perverse that he always fronted, it was an odd topic of him mentioning that he was a terrorist. It was a fact that he never let anyone forget and yet never brought up plainly. Some part of it unnerved you, just a little bit.

You frowned when you noticed the corners of his lip upturn, discerning your hesitation as fear, “Come on in, darlin’. The waters’ great. It’s always good to preen those feathers often.”

“Stop bringing me here, asshole,” You snap, trying to mask your unease by shoving a foot out closer towards the shore, “Don’t you have better things to do? Didn’t your group capture that woman yesterday? Why not go bother her?”

You can see the shaking in Higgs’ shoulders—indicating that he was chuckling, flashing you yet another mirthless smirk, “I can’t have fun with her like I can with you, sweetheart.”

_Okay, so that’s a fucking lie._

“I’m surprised you still would want to have fun,” You gleamed smugly, shifting one hesitant foot in front of the other before taking a seat on the black sand, “I thought you’d be all tuckered out after drinking so much and hitting someone with a pizza. I really thought you had it all out of your system.”

Higgs turned away from you— ** _huh_** —-and averted his eyes, “You didn’t respond to me, darlin’. Not like I had many options.”

You frowned deeper, eyes flickering over the sea foam that kissed at your ankles, “Take me home, Higgs. I don’t want to be here.”

There was an odd thought that came across your mind; the dream you had of Higgs. In that fiery pit of tar that was stubborn to swallow the both of you, the act of intimacy was the only thing that kept you two afloat. It was a dangerous thing to think about a dream like that in front of him, but you did it anyway—despite your unanswered measurement of how good his clairvoyance was. You wanted to question him about it, initially, thinking that the perverted side of himself had acted on impulse and just decided to annoy you more with thoughts like that. But after you had saved the drunken video file he sent and kept some of his particularly amusing messages, it was you; your motives that should be questioned— _not Higgs’._

He took advantage of the time that you spent in your head, coming up to the shore to meet you. He crouched beside you, and you made no attempt to move. _He wouldn’t hurt you here,_ something told you, he would’ve much rather liked to have crushed the actual body of yours in his bare fist. Leaving you stranded here, with your soul still intact certainly did not meet up to his standards of fun or satisfaction. However, as his gloved hand came forward to caress the side of your cheek, you made the mistake in not recognizing that he could still act on other stupid shit here.

“Stay away from me.” You warned sternly, your hands shifting from your lap to flatten on the sand that could put some distance between you and Higgs, who frowned sardonically.

“I don’t think it should come as a surprise that I value your company.”

“No, it doesn’t,” You say flatly, “It _annoys_ me.”

Higgs’ laugh returned to the air again, reverberating across the silent sands and dull roars of the sea, “I think it also makes you feel other things, too. At least, some minuscule… _a particle,”_

He stops to lurch forward, grinning against the shell of your ear, “One itty-bitty feeling you have that makes your heart soar at the sight of me. You’re excited even, darlin’. I can smell it.”

_Uh, ew._

The urge to release a shudder from the husky, deeper tones of his voice is great, but you manage to straighten your trembling spine and turn to face him, laughing right in his face. The tips of your noses brush against each other, yet none of you had made the effort to move away. It challenges you, offers an opportunity of proof that he doesn’t scare you as much as he might think. It’s irritable—the amount that he can perceive from you just by a single, judgmental glance—it irks you. And you’re glad he can smell excitement; your knee is excited, too, aching to hit him right in the balls.

“How the fuck could I be anything else when I’m talking to a terrorist?” You ask with a raised brow, “How would you feel? You murder thousands of people and kidnap the rest.”

“Shit, darlin’,” He scoffs, shaking his head, “What’d you expect? This world is on the brink of collapse and is in desperate need for guidance. A reaper’s scythe, sweetheart. People die everyday, and I am just the herald of Death who makes the numbers drop faster.”

You roll your eyes, returning your hardened glare to the sea, _“Wow,_ spoken like a true terrorist.”

Yet again, the interest that Higgs had for you seemed to have spiked further. You really do need to stop being so snarky all the damn time. He didn’t come closer, thankfully, as if your incensed look was protruding some kind of barrier that Higgs could see and finally avoid being close to, as if it would shock him from the slightest touch. It did nothing to stop him from staring at you though, intensely and curiously; studying every bit of yourself just by the way you looked. You fucking hated it and veered your head at him again, his face inextricably twisted as he tried to vocalize his final judgement. If he didn’t say anything and just take you home, that would be great.

“One person’s last breath can be quiet…” His voice becomes incredibly sedate, the sobriety enough to make you soften your glare, “But this world…come the end…they will all die screaming. You ain’t seen what I’ve seen, little bird.”

_No,_ you thought somberly, _I can’t. I don’t have DOOMs._

You stifle a snort—a reaction that was supposedly the last thing that he had expected, “No, I haven’t. But I can already tell that whatever you saw was bad enough to singe off those eyebrows.”

_A whine_ —a reaction that was the last thing to be expect by you—had resounded from Higgs in a nasally manner, almost childish, which irked you even more, “Stop picking on me and my eyebrows—“

“—I can’t pick on them if they don’t exist—“

_“—Little bird,”_ He snaps sharply, looking at you while your laugh is desperately trying to be held down, “I brought you here for a reason. Don’t waste my time.”

You frown incredulously, your hands uprooting from the sand to fold across your chest, “Man, fuck you. _You_ were the one who brought me here and invited me to go into the water. I’m on fucking vacation because of you.”

_The **nerve** of this motherfucker_. The reminder that Fragile could still be out there slowly creeps up into your present worries. But you don’t give away the fact that you and Fragile were working together; Higgs needs to make the first move. You are also concerned with the fact that Higgs might’ve been watching you two and listening to your discussion during your time in the private room and the bunker. Saving face, you decided to listen to Higgs and his incessant rantings—during the cryptic and _greater-than-thou_ monologues coaxed with that charming twang. The whole ‘ _blah, blah, blah, I’m important and better than you, blah, blah, blah._ ’ Was way above the threshold on your tolerance for stupidity. _What a bitch!_

“Things are changing lately, and for some of us, not all things coming our way will be on our side.”

You roll your head across your shoulders and raise your brows at him, “ _Wow_ , really? Why in the world would that be? You only kidnapped the president of the UCA’s daughter and her entire expedition team, keeping them hostage in a camp full of terrorists.”

Higgs didn’t at all seem amused for your sarcasm, deciding to continue with his explanation, “Being here on the Beach ensures to me that you’re alive and well. I do have quite the soft-spot for little porters like you, so consider my visits a sign of caring hospitality. I’m gonna need all the cogs in the machine to get this show on the road, and now that we have Amelie…”

“What’s so great about Amelie Strand?” You query with little to no real concern, “Is she bait or something? Collateral damage so that the UCA would fit right into your palm? Sounds like a _pretty cheap move—“_

A strangled noise than a coherent word escaped out of your chest next, feeling the length of your spine arch as it painfully smacks against the wet sand. You pry your eyes open, tightly narrowing at the sight of Higgs looming over you with a terrifyingly calm countenance. His legs rooted on either side of your body, keeping you trapped under his weight that momentarily crushes against your lungs. The thought of your dream with Higgs unwillingly races across your alarmed mind, swimming with unbridled fear and apprehension that something atrocious and unwanted could actually occur while you’re under him.

_Nope, nope. That’ll never fucking happen even if you become a BT. Nope._

“I promise you that _this_ …and everything your pretty little mind can come up with is the **_least_** I can do. The limits of a god are incomprehensible, and I’m sure that you wouldn’t want to prove that. Now, would you?”

_Fuck this_ , you snarl.

Your feet stick outwards, farther than where Higgs’ legs had reached and grab him by the crease of his elbows. What you did next was enough to leave you heaving, including Higgs who is bewildered by the sudden shift in movement; uprooting your hips from the ground and thwarting his entire body sideways. The two of you roll violently across the sand, where you’re now straddling Higgs and pinning him down by the stomach with your knee, your one hand shifting to reach inside your pocket. Through labored breathing, Higgs seems to be finished with his speculation, where your victory was due to an inherited instinct taught to you by the Hunter. You were someone who was hardened enough to be a porter, facing the dangers of this world with what was not an uncaring disposition, but a purely disinterred one because _you already knew how to face them._

Higgs was just another one of those dangers, a thorn in your side…

Your eyes met with Higgs’ and suddenly, you find yourself spilling out that free breath of laughter.

_An enjoyable learning experience._

“You know,” Higgs’ panted, storm-brewed eyes refusing to leave yours as your hand came around your own belt—looking for something, “I don’t like people at all…I usually dislike them.”

“Yeah, I know.” You say, finally gripping onto that small object clasped from your belt, taking it out.

“You…you’re an exception.” Higgs releases a strained chuckle through small coughs, where your knee didn’t provide enough room for him to breathe properly—in which you only pressed against his chest tighter, eliciting a satisfying huffing growl from his throat,

You popped off the cap of your secret weapon, offering the terrorist a mirthless smirk as you leveled the tip above his eye, “I’m about to become unforgettable then.”

It took a few seconds of illegible jittering of your hand, but you managed to finally be expelled from the Beach, all thanks to Higgs on his own accord. It hardly mattered that you awoke in a cold sweat, rolling off the couch and hitting the ground hard, where the clamor of your cryptobiotes came to your chittering rescue. As you breathed in and out, starting at a relaxed and slow pace before accelerating normally, it didn’t take long for those small quick huffs and labored heaving to turn into a rather deranged form of wild howls of laughter that shook the entire bunker’s confinements. 

You had gotten what you wanted; you were free for now.

And when the new message ping that came to your inbox seconds later, coming from an anonymous source, you slept peacefully that night. There were no dreams that night but the lamenting image attachment of Higgs standing in front of a bathroom mirror. Across his tattooed forehead was kept all the same—except for the thick streaks of black and permanent ink-eyebrows, misshapen and nearly misplaced. But it gave you all the satisfaction and joy in the world.

_Fuck you_ , the message said that came a second afterwards.

_Yeah...fuck you, too, Higgs._

The meeting on the Beach seemed to be like some sort of wake-up call for you. A call that shouldn’t be ignored unless you wanted to give a reason for Higgs to boast about how he’s got you beat. You practically peeled yourself off of the couch and shoved your body inside your porter gear, ultimately deciding that BRIDGES can go fuck themselves—they’ve got bigger problems to attend to with Amelie Strand and you insisted that you don’t want to be involved. Deliveries were your thing, not putting up with politics or terrorist bullshit. Taking the orders little by little, you decided to accept a delivery request from a rather well-known figure around Mountain Knot called Doctor Heartman. 

His laboratory and living quarters resided further southwest from your bunker, a rather easy yet lengthy trip down the incline with no notable roads to take with your reverse trike. Sadly, you wouldn’t be taking it and would have to travel on foot—unless you’d want to end up falling down the hill and exploding. _Nah_ , you rather liked living. But with how shitty these past few days have been, you were more or less favorable with the idea of catching on fire. Getting out of the bunker and beginning your journey down the mountain acted first than that intrusive idea, and you wholeheartedly blamed Higgs for it.

Keeping your hood over your head, you were rather cautious of the unseen winds that blew through the endless billows of grey. There was no telling what kind of weather would be storming through these mountains, and the worst variation possible would be frozen timefall. Somehow, being in the comforts of the melted spring offered more reassurance than out here, straight in the middle of the whimsical breaths of snow. It was a learning process, truthfully, keeping your head up for a few seconds to plan out the hazy route ahead before putting your head back down again to avoid the rushing snowflakes biting at your cheeks. 

The anti-chiralium medication package strapped to your power skeleton wasn’t giving you any real trouble, but the annoyance of your odradek stayed. There were no BTs in the area, but the incessant mechanical droning surges from over your shoulder and into your ear was really adding volumes of irritation from the roaring cold. _Wow, everything was just getting onto your nerves today, huh?_ Yet, at long last, you finally see a dark facility in the distance, snow crested with many frames of windows and a great flight of stairs. You let out a large groan when you made your first step.

_Great. Just fucking great._

The climb felt like hours, you almost leaned over the side of the railing to barf, but you finally made it to the porch of this ridiculously sized facility. Heartman really had all the accommodations, huh? Maybe just to save yourself some time, you’d ask him to make BRIDGES make use of themselves and send some Cicadas up here as escorts. _Nah_ , you thought next as you entered the terminal, _you’re not that petty._ Shoving the crates onto the mechanical shelves that easily took the delivery with an irritable metallic clank, you were met with the holographic image of a rather refined gentleman appearing over the terminal’s podium. 

Blonde hair, specs, strange machine on his chest, fingerless leather black gloves… _oh, yeah._ A splendid fashion choice for a doctor, indeed.

_“Ah, thank you very much,”_ His accent was a rather soothing feat, but it didn’t make him much less of a fragmentally blue eyesore, _“I was beginning to wonder if my request had not been sent through properly. This network isn’t all the rage as it used to be these days. Excellent work.”_

“My pleasure.” You hope that your autonomous polite tone didn’t come off as sarcastic.

_“Oh, hold on,”_ He uttered, as if he discovered something before you turned away—peering at your furrowed expression that didn’t at all take in the mien, _“You’re the Botanist’s daughter, aren’t you?”_

_Oh, great,_ you thought with disdain, _a friend of mom’s._

“That’s right,” You say, deciding not to bother with hiding your flat and hardened tone, “You knew her?”

Heartman gives a chaste nod, with eyes glistening in lament, _“Your mother has provided me with some of the most exquisite floras prior to the Death Stranding in the most formidable of conditions. As well as your father who has given many wondrous fauna subjects. Their longevity is truly outstanding, my thanks to you.”_

You don’t particularly know what to do other than to just nod and smile. Friends of your parents tend to be a bit overbearing for you, and you fucking hoped that you wouldn’t turn out the same way in the next thirty years—assuming that you’d crack or didn’t die early. The way that this Doctor Heartman praised your parents, however, made you feel unsettled as he somehow saw the same potential in you. _Fuck no._

“You’re welcome, I’ll be sure to tell her that you said hello.” 

Heartman shifts within the chiral transmission, offering a thumbs-up that has boosted your rep in likes, _“I’m sure we’ll be keeping in touch. Now, that Sam Porter Bridges is being considered to connect the chiral network from the east,”_

_Who?_

_“Farewell and good luck to you.”_

With that, the terminal’s chiral hologram had been switched off, and suddenly you were beginning to be thankful for the boost in likes. The fatigue you experienced throughout the bunker was finally leaving you, and this familiar thrill of delivering things— _helping people_ —was finally all but a recent memory. The cufflinks that had portrayed your previous route to Heartman’s lab were incredibly helpful with making the trip back to the bunker. After returning, you were beginning to consider actually going through with your words with Heartman, but found that the effort was ultimately useless as your chiral transmitter had blocked you from sending the message. 

Sleeping that night was free of dreams, but the question of who this _Sam Porter Bridges_ person was lingered in the echoing darkness.

That night, you dream of a woman in a red dress standing on the Beach…smiling at you.

When you awake the next morning, you’re up and about the bunker by six in the morning—an ungodly hour for you to be awake by, but you cannot help your agitation on making deliveries around Mountain Knot. Looking outside the window was a sight to behold—a rare thought that had crossed your mind when you were half-way finished with your coffee—the pillars of sunlight making the heavy grey clouds part and split into generous cracks over the mountains. Black colors and the stark whites were harsh on the eyes, but through the gentle yellows were you able to make out some sort of beauty from such a distance away. You were eager to trek right through them, but had it not been for Fragile literally crashing into your kitchen you would’ve left the bunker sooner.

You uprooted yourself from the dining room chair and immediately rushed to catch Fragile’s trembling and terribly pale body that hunched over the counter, knocking things over and spilling half-opened contents on the floor. Powering through paltry inconveniences, you managed to drag Fragile to the couch and set her down easily. She was sweating— _horribly damp_ —and her clothes had been disheveled. There was a morbid thought that came to you, fearing the worst before Fragile waylaid you completely, becoming still from her shaky hand that gripped you by the wrist.

Once you saw it, you knew immediately what happened.

Fragile had been under **_timefall_**.

Higgs managed to get to Fragile.

You blinked.

_He fucking knows about the two of you._


	8. Peripatetic「8」

## 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐲 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤

_How the **fuck** did this happen?_

Fragile’s condition was considered critical, and you ended up letting her crash at your place for the night. The skin of her entire body from the neck down was nearly translucent, a sickly pale that convulsed every so often from the throbbing of her spidering blue and violet veins. They were everywhere, stretching across the lengths of her liver-spotted arms and legs that seemed to lessen in healthy fatty tissue. Fragile stayed on the couch for hours, mumbling through her slumber as if sleep itself was a powering task. You were afraid that she might actually die on you, but that didn’t stop you from trying. From what you understood about timefall, the rapid acceleration process of her cells was breaking down in integrity—you purchased a hefty supply of cryptobiotes that would be delivered here from a porter soon. You weren’t gonna feed Fragile Horns, Claws, or Fang—and you often had to gently pry her hand away from grabbing and eating them, they were a bit more sentimental than to be used as Fragile’s sustenance at the moment.

She wasn’t strong enough to form coherent sentences yet, but she seemed to understand you well enough to dart her rapid gaze towards your stash of MREs, feeding her every-so hour your rations. There was a certain kind of guilt weighing down your heart, that classic ‘ _it should’ve been me_ ’ voice thundering inside your head. But what the fuck could have happened? If Higgs found out that you two were working together, especially since you have been under BRIDGES watch for a while now and the two of you could outnumber him, that would’ve both gotten you killed—no matter how much you ‘ _amused_ ’ and ‘ _intrigued_ ’ him. You were conflicted with what to do with Fragile, there was no telling of how much time she had left in this world—if she dies, it’s _over_. That bastard will continue to torment you for the rest of your life, but you didn’t feed your doubts to his flaming ego just yet.

The porter with the cryptobiotes was here, the package of the farm had come down the terminal with the shelves for you to take. The box was particularly heavy, but you muscled through and tore it open with one of your dad’s old knives—rusty but it got the job done. A dozen jars full of wild coral and the crawlers were inside, and you took one out and fed it to Fragile. You didn’t have IV’s or many effective medical equipment that could properly analyze Fragile’s condition, so you had to make an estimate. After feeding Fragile three cryptobiotes and charting down her approximate blood levels, you decided that you should let her rest and make a call to Higgs.

You closed the door to your room and immediately checked your chiral logs. You scrolled your inbox to the earliest message, ignoring that image attachment of Higgs and his drawn-on eyebrows and immediately jabbed your thumb on the direct call icon. The transmission gave a mechanically fragmented hum before the autonomous voice engaged with Higgs on the other line. And, as soon as he picked up, you tore into him with a sharp voice.

“What the fuck did you do, Higgs?”

There was a long and pleasant hum coming from the other line, _“My, my. Is my little bird calling me for the first time ever? And is that also the sound of poor Fragile’s weak breathing? What a wonderful surprise; a two in one deal.”_

“Cut the bullshit,” You snarled, folding your arms tightly over your chest, “What the hell did you do to Fragile?”

_“I’m sure you’ve seen it all for yourself already, darlin’,”_ Higgs chuckled deeply into the mic, whereas you had furiously begun to pace around the room, _“Soaked right to the bone. She is quite the…withering symbol, isn’t she? A testament, exactly what I was going for. The perfect message for those who would dare think about crossing me…I thought that’d be clear enough for you. Should I give another demonstration?”_

“ _No!_ Fuck no!” You shouted quickly, glaring incredulously at the sheer light of the chiral logs of Higgs’ name, as if it had a face to blame, “Jesus, can you just— _listen to me!_ I don’t care about your end of the world bullshit. Just stop dragging other people into my business. How many times do I have to tell you? I—“

There was a sonorous laugh that waylaid your demands, echoing and rutting the walls throughout your room from the other line— _did this fucker find everything amusing_ —and you couldn’t help but let an involuntary chill trickle down the length of your spine, _“—I’m afraid that no matter how scathing you can be, nothing is gonna be enough to convince me otherwise. Extinction can’t be put off by one word to the authorities by a little bird who has trouble singing. Seems like my visits are gonna have to be a quotidian routine.”_

_“What?_ No fucking—“

_“—I’ll be seeing you soon—-“_

“— _ **Higgs**_ —“

_“—The game has begun.”_

The thunder of timefall is what ends the chiral transmission, and you’re left alone, _still playing Higgs’ game._

_Fuck everything._

Fragile had been watching the storm of timefall hail from the outside window. Her eyes were nearly glazed over, her hands cradling a cup of steaming tea with wrinkled hands that did not seem to absorb the heat at all. You refused to close the curtains of the bunker and made no effort to give her the news to Higgs; there was no answer as to understand why or what he had done. The act was cruel, she found out—that much was clear and over with. Fragile knew what she had done, and some part of yourself had chosen to remain in the dark. And that didn’t stop you from sharing this hospitality, no. You’re hardened and broken, but you’d give every little piece of yourself to others if necessary. _Stupid_ , your parents called it. _Generous_ , you’d say.

The pattering of frozen rain hit the asphalt tunnel of the entrance, where you were almost certain of the possibility that your mother’s garden outside would completely wither; the plastic drapes wouldn’t fair well with this much hail, and you mentally prepared yourself to say goodbye to some of the carnations that hadn’t even bloomed yet. The white noise provided by the newsfeed was all the more reason that silence was not a virtue here. There were questions that needed to be asked, but you didn’t—you don’t act on morbid impulse. You just stayed to the side, munching on MRE saltines and kept a close eye on Fragile. As hypocritical as it might’ve seemed, you were ready to tend to her needs.

“It looks so harmless,” Fragile finally spoke through a hoarse throat, peeling her eyes away from the foggy window to stare down at the acidic yellow of her drink, “You’d think a simple drop of water wouldn’t make any difference in the desert.”

“Fragile,” You call softly, coming down to meet her on the couch and offering her a cryptobiote with a deep frown, “What…How did this happen?”

You don’t know if she heard you or if she didn’t want to talk about it, but either way, she changed the topic entirely, “What happened to your parents?”

Well, you should’ve seen that coming in one way or the other.

“My parents?” You echo, feigning your perturbed expression by letting out a hard chuckle, failing to meet her glassy eyes, “Fragile, I don’t really see—“

“—You think about them often. I can see it,” She interrupts you with a frail smile, leaning back on the couch as her head falls back on the cushioned armrest— _she was expecting a bedtime story now, huh_ —and you were somehow forced to rethink on what kind of shit your face had been pulling for her to perceive that, “They were preppers, right? From what I’ve been told; they were nice people.”

The phenomenon of the Death Stranding has taken a toll on your parents. From what you could remember, the world had been fractured into two easily. When the first void outs happened, the population went deranged and a widespread panic on a global scale ensued. The smart people—those who were either preppers or their descendants—had gone underground. It was the safest place before breaching from the surface, coming out to see that the world they used to know was nothing but rubble and tar detritus where the land of the dead was their top priority. They survived by the skin of their teeth, so it came as no surprise to you that they were tough during childhood. Learn this, know that, find a way out of this, and remember how to create that.

The norm of childhood did not bring you peace, you thought, you were just existing—a mere daughter.

_A fucking child._

Nothing special in their eyes.

“I grew up, just like any other youngster,” You told her, eyes full of lament as the inextricable images of reality and memory faded throughout your periphery, “I learned how to survive, thanks to my parents. They weren’t the best people in the world…but they tried,”

You took a seat on the floor, your back resting up against the welt of the sofa, leaning your head back beside her arm that was folded under the blankets, “When the world went deeper into shit with the rise of MULEs, they saw how much America had changed. With no thanks to Bridget Strand. So, despite learning all that shit about protecting myself, they told me that there was no point in connecting with others because…they were just gonna put you in deep shit anyway. They told me not to go into the outside world,”

You could feel Fragile’s eyes burn at the top of your skull, so you looked back, flashing the increments of a smile, “And then I fucked up,”

You remember how angry your father got when you told him you had quit schooling with Mama and Lockne, how your mother came to your room that night in tears and begged you not to leave for the outside world. You don’t know how such a thought came to you— _becoming a porter_ —but you knew, deep down, that you were just sick of the suffocation. Exhausting is another way to put it, tired of trying to meet your parent’s expectations and please them for no damn reason other than the world was just bad. It was _sickening_. If you were out there, you’d change some things. But you only had yourself and your parents to blame afterwards; hardly anything changed, it was only after ruining everything did you come to learn that it would be supremely difficult to crack the hard walls of the world.

And then, you thought of it as spreading your wings. 

**_Fuck…_ **

“I managed to leave the bunker… I planned to leave during the snowstorm, my dad would’ve never found my tracks. But once I got outside, they were already there waiting for me…” You could hear Fragile’s head shift atop the cushions of the armrest, and your throat tightened from harsh remembrance, blood running bitterly cold like it did that night during the blizzard, “My dad pointed his gun at me and fired—he fucking… _fired_. My mom was trying to calm him down and grab me, said that everything would be fine if I just gave up on the world. She couldn’t…she couldn’t hold onto me for long though…the bullet hit me in the side, blood just pouring everywhere, I was deflating like some kind of water balloon,”

You can hardly recollect those dark blotched and fragmented memory patterns after your dad shot you, as the only thing you could do was bleed and feel. Feel—to call it that would be a _disservice_ —you were fucking dying. What the fuck else could you do but lay there in the red snow and wait for death? You weren’t a repatriate; you didn’t have DOOMs. _Hell_ , if you had, your parents would’ve put you down from the beginning—when you couldn’t even register or feel anything. Your hand shifted from the side of your lap to trace over the scar that bullet made, though it was protected by warmer linen clothes and the still air that ventilated throughout the bunker, you could still remember the blatant pain, burning like all hell.

A parent who takes life and a parent who gives life.

“When I woke up the next morning…covered in bandages and blood, they just up and left. I suppose that they just didn’t want a daughter who couldn’t abide by their rules, thinking that the world was anything else but peaceful,” Through your nose, you gave a silent sigh, eyes closing as drowsiness had begun to creep on you, “And ever since, I’ve been by myself. Facing the world alone. Solitude…suited for a porter.”

In a way, Fragile could almost feel it, too; your pain. The emotional sting that haunted almost every waking moment, but it was too early for her to say that she could understand that. She doesn’t, she doesn’t really know anything about you.

And as you looked away from Fragile, you figured it’d be best to keep it that way.

After two weeks, Fragile’s conditions was going through an endless cycle. It wasn’t just the cryptobiotes that she needed; it was anti-chiralium medication. You assumed that after she was under timefall for so long, there was a small amount of chiral density in her body, which spiked her numerous fevers and various fluctuating body pains. Although she was well-rested enough to walk, she would constantly remark that there was an extra creak in her knees or a small waver in her balance. It was up to chance that you would leave her for a few hours to go and visit Doctor Heartman near Mountain Knot, where the medicinal package and some of his notes on chiralium could prove useful to improve Fragile’s condition. It was strange gearing up for work after such a long time taking care of Fragile, but she insisted that she could manage being alone and gave her thanks as she stood by the doorway.

“I inherited my father’s company, so I never was fitted to be a proper porter,” She says while watching you slip on your lucky boots, tapping the tight scuffs on the tiles, “I’m a little jealous.”

“Trust me, you’re much better fairing as a business woman. On my first day on the job, I didn’t make it five feet from the bunker before I slipped off the side of a mountain and my cargo went flying everywhere,” You grimaced tightly as you remembered the feeling of snow prickling inside your ears, “You’ll be okay, though?”

Fragile stifled a laugh, pressing a hand to the wall before consuming another— _unnamed and non sentimental_ —cryptobiote, “I’ll be fine. Let me know if anything goes wrong.”

It was so different, the weather never used to be like this. It was calm and still, silent with no howls of biting wind. Atop the peak of mountains crested with heavy grey clouds and lighter patches of snow resting on jagged formations, there was an odd stillness that hung over your shoulders. Against the nape of your neck, there was an odd breath of warmth and stability as you made your way out of the bunker’s sensor ring, and an unwilling shiver goes up and down the length of your spine. But you didn’t shake it off, no. If anyone had asked, you would’ve just told them that you didn’t want to make your odradek sensor fall from your back by jittery movements—but you rather welcomed this new freshness that spread further against the length of your body, reaching up to fan against your cheeks. The feeling was aggressive, but it was fading—and soon, it’ll be gone. The expected trekking time would’ve been cut down into half, you’d get back to Fragile in like an hour, tops. However, you still didn’t make the effort in bringing out your reverse trike.

You ought to enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.

The journey to Heartman’s lab did not come without its perks. With a droning surge of your odradek sensor and viable displayed map on your cufflinks, you had learned that there was a spa nearby—arguably the best one you have yet to come across throughout your job as a porter. And as you were within time’s merciful favor, you decided to pay a visit after picking up the package. Shit, you thought, you couldn’t tell if life was mocking you or cutting some slack. Reaching the dark high-rise building, you repeated the incessant climb up the flight of stairs, grumbling incoherently half-way through. You planned to tell this guy to get an elevator or something.

You entered the terminal and were greeted with the sight of skulls aligned in glass cases on your right, a rather macabre thing to have in someone’s house, but alright. From what you understood, Doctor Heartman’s notes supposedly composed details about the Death Stranding, the leading cause of what he described was something called an Extinction Entity; a being whose purpose is to bring about the end of days and decimate all life as we know it. You discarded the email with no fucks to give about it—Fragile was dying, you had other things to worry about than the theory of the end of the world—and entered your credentials for the medicinal package.

What you did not expect, however, was Doctor Heartman himself stepping out of the comfort of his lab and coming out of the skull-filled hallway to meet you. You blinked, finding this doctor a bit far from your expectations as you initially thought, finding that he had carried out the packages himself. It was tucked neatly under his arm with that strange beeping machine on his chest beside it—a heart monitor, perhaps?

“Ah, you’ve come earlier than expected,” As his voice was not as fragmented and blemished with statical fuzz, there was a hint of relief blooming from it inside your chest, his gloved hand stretching out in formality, “It’s nice to finally meet you properly. I have what you need here, and we have plenty of time to discuss Miss Fragile’s current condition.”

_Well, isn’t he just chipper?_

You shook his hand with a polite nod, deciding to act on morbid curiosity and gesture towards the strange chest monitor, “Should I be worried if that’s a bomb or something? I don’t want to come off as rude, but I tend to fall into that situation kind of often lately…”

Heartman gives a light chuckle, patting down the canary-yellow straps around his shoulders, “This is nothing to worry about, at least for you. My own malady is kept in-check by many safeguarding arrangements. But I apologize if I might collapse. That is my own adverse effect for my condition.”

“Collapse?” You echoed, trying to piece together the complexity of his condition with vague mentions, “You—“

“—Three minutes of being induced by cardiac arrest, three minutes on the Beach,” Heartman reveals nonchalantly, oblivious to your completely incredulous expression as you mull over the fact that the guy could literally drop _dead_ any minute now, but he tried to appease you with a lighter grin, “I know, it’s rather alarming. But don’t worry, I just got back, we have twenty minutes to talk.”

You now understand why he’s called Doctor Heartman, beginning to be plagued with new questions that revolved around his condition. Oftentimes, you don’t meet people with ailments on the job—maybe they were given special treatment thanks to BRIDGES or maybe they could not survive in the world altogether—but meeting Heartman was certainly going to leave a new impression on you. The mix of routines that you were currently experiencing was certainly leading you somewhere; a new job occupation like your parents would have wanted or maybe the opportunity for you to remain in isolation altogether. It was stressful, tiring, thrilling, and adventurous—but most importantly, it was _new_. 

And **_new_** …in your experience, is one of the most _terrifying_ experiences in the world.

“Fragile’s condition had nearly became comatose, the chiralium exposure from timefall onto skin is not the same as it affects the ground,” Heartman explains, pulling out the packet of notes that he had written and unwinded the binding knotted rope, peeling across the pages for certainty, “Thankfully, the density of Fragile’s skin is not capable of growing chiralium crystals, which would be similar to a body in the final stages of necrosis. However, I’m concerned if she has experienced any dreams lately? It is only a theory, but the effect may not have been focused on her physical ha—her body—but her ka. The soul.”

As you thought back to Fragile’s condition during her stay at your home, you were surprised to find out that she didn’t really experience any nightmares of the Beach, “No, she hadn’t.”

However, your answer seemed to have resolved Heartman’s ideas as he nodded assuredly, “I thought so. Then, I’m sure you’re familiar with the various DOOMs symptoms of a sufferer, such as Fragile herself.”

Heartman turns the pages to you, revealing a human diagram picture and some kind of black cloud inside of their head—dreams, he labeled them in pencil. The structure was a person, a sufferer, who was experiencing harsh dreams because of their DOOMs abilities. What was listed beside the diagram was a variety of known symptoms that sufferers experienced throughout their childhood, and the possible outcomes to those who were exposed to chiralium; particularly death. Suicidal thoughts, depression, insomnia, elevated stress levels, and apocalyptic nightmares.

Nightmares, understandable. But ‘ _apocalyptic_ ’? What the hell does that mean?

“Assuming that Miss Fragile has had DOOMs since she was born, she would’ve experienced some of these cases during her childhood. Sufferers, these days are quite rare, and not all of them connect in ways that we might’ve used to or use orthodox methods all the time,” Heartman flips the page over to show five sketches figures; labeled as the five EE’s—and you don’t miss the chill it brings as you stare at them, “But what I do know for certain, is that Extinction Entities are the key to figuring out whether the phenomena of timefall and chiralium can be linked and diverted back to their original planes of existence; after all, they come from the Beach.”

With a hardened look, you’ve come to find that the answer wasn’t satisfying; it wasn’t always enough, but for Fragile’s sake, you decided to press, “What does this mean for Fragile? How do these… _Extinction Entities_ help her?” 

Heartman seems to understand your impatience, as he finally closes and winds the book shut, “Digging into the past is not always an easy task. As I mentioned before when we last spoke, there is a man being considered by the BRIDGES foundation to reconnect the entirety of the chiral network.”

“Sam Porter Bridges,” You lamented with a curious furrow in your brow, “How is he involved?”

“There are certain arrangements that he can tend to in the east if he is up for the task. The proper reconnection of the chiral network and the history of the EE’s opens us to more resources that can help Fragile. As we are now, we’re just scraping by since the expedition team and Amelie Strand had been captured,”

_That name again,_ you thought somberly, _that woman again…_

“Within a few weeks and a steady routine of these anti-chiralium medications, Fragile will be able to revert to the way she used to be,” Heartman assured, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “All we can do is hope for a chance…or prolong the inevitable.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that information, and you hope that whatever happens doesn’t leave you with a shit-ton of regrets. After you left Heartman’s laboratory, medicinal packages and his notes securely fastened to your power skeleton, you made your way to the Heartwarming Spa to relax after all that science talk and existential fuckery. Courtesy of Heartman, of course, who supposedly wasn’t keeping track of the time and scared the shit out of you by dropping dead—there was an automated voice who told you not to worry, but you couldn’t help but be more creeped out anyway, getting the fuck out. Fragile wouldn’t mind, you still had thirty minutes to spare, after all.

Before you leave Heartman’s lab, you decide to relieve yourself from these heavy curiosities and dreadful burdens, turning with great reluctance to ask one last question.

The viridian waters somewhat perturbed you into thinking that you were going to take a bath in hot swamp water, but as you sank your legs into the shallow pools, all the worries went away. Your fatigue and stress were awash with steam, and you couldn’t help but sigh a warm cloud into the mistral, cold air. It was such an interesting contrast, but it wasn’t at all unpleasant, eventually stripping away the entirety of your cargo—swallowed by the green tides completely. Everything was floating away into great heated puffs, the small hairs at the back of your neck becoming slick with the help of your cupped hands, crawling with translucent green vines. Although the sound of remembrance and memories of bloodied snow rushed out of your head all at once, the watery snakes stretching across your chest eased the dulled pain. 

“Fuck…” You purred warmly, running your fingers across the water with a smile full of ecstasy, “Maybe I’ll suggest this place to Fragile. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Fuck yeah, go me.”

Who were you talking to? Absolutely no one, because _fuck all._

You pulled your knees to your chest and let out another sigh, rolling your neck as the curling steam aided in fogging up your spatial awareness. More recent memories occupied your mind, but you didn’t think much of it; particularly wondering about Higgs. The term ‘ _game_ ’ he used was a bit unusual, but you couldn’t really expect anything less from a guy who’d nuke a city for attention or use a poor girl as a testament through petty means. It almost ruined your mood, but once you sank even lower into the pools with your tailbone rubbing at the tiled flooring, the worries sank deeper into the mindless blank void.

“What a fucking man-child,” You mumbled to yourself, your words coming out through fern-green bubbles as your lips melted into the water, “God, I want to strangle him like ninety-nine percent of the time I see him.”

_“Then, why don’t you come on out and do so?”_

**_For fuck’s sake—_ **

You’re overbearingly careful in not moving underneath the water, no matter how much you want to jump out and run—you’re not letting this fucker see you completely unclothed. You feared that he might take advantage of the opportunity; thinking that they might follow up on the threat of making you another one of his ‘ _demonstrations_ ’. Your nose points towards the sky to see Higgs, the glorious bastard himself, casually striding along the length of the roof’s edge, masks hiding his surely grinning face. Your hands are quick to cage yourself, your arms acting as some sort of shield from his line of sight while your knees push you farther at the pool’s corners—but all it does is amuse him more.

“Now, I know why you didn’t want to step into the sea with me, little bird,” Higgs observes with a hum, pausing to make a chiral jump behind you on the stone-walkways, eliciting a startled gasp that flied out of your mouth, veering your head, “You don’t like that cold sea breeze…you like the _heat_.”

“Goddammit, Higgs,” You snarl quietly, shifting away as Higgs kneels down closer, “Can you stop being so perverted for five minutes?”

Higgs tilts his head, almost acting innocent before reaching a gloved hand out to brush away the stray locks of hair against your eyes—if you moved away, you had a certain feeling he’d jump in after you, “Can I be annoying for three?”

Your glare is the only answer you give him, and fortunately, he’s not a complete idiot as he throws his hands up in defeat, “Alright, alright. You win this time; our little chat today will have to compensate for today’s trip to the Beach. I just wanted to give you a little something, think of it as a congrats present for managing to overpower me the other day and a thank-you for entertaining me.”

Whatever it was, you either had to kill it or set it on fire.

“Take off your mask,” You challenged with a mirthlessly smug sneer, “I get the feeling that the ink didn’t wash off so good.”

Higgs doesn’t comply with your wishes—begrudgingly—and instead reaches over behind his back to pull out a pair of golden chiral boots. The faded slate-blue irises you could just barely see behind his dark gas mask flickered alive as he saw your expression soften, ensnared by incredulity and reluctance to his kindness. They definitely looked like a perfect pair, twinkling dimly from polish that almost made you forget that it was made from such a harmful substance. Your eyes drew up cautiously to Higgs who kept still, waiting for you to make the first move. You couldn’t tell what kind of true mien he had behind the mask, but you predicted that whatever it was; he’d want compensation for it later.

_Fuck,_ you thought with a stubborn frown, _what the hell are these even for?_

You tried to make the smart move and snap your hand faster than he would’ve anticipated, attempting to snatch the boots and take the risk of them getting wet with the spa water. However, it seems like Higgs was beginning to catch on about your caution and dexterity; as he already read your movements—perceiving predictability seemed to be a strong point in him, and he yanked the boots father from your reach. He came forward, twisting his other hand close to grip your stretched and vulnerable wrist. Instinctive alarms were blaring inside your head, trying to save the remaining dignity of shielding yourself and not let Higgs’ grip pry you from your spot, but the cruel docility was overwhelming in this particular situation. 

Okay, if you let him pull you any closer, you’re fucked because he could yank you right out of the pool and see you nude. If you try to back away from him, you could let him fall in and there’s absolutely no way he would care about it at all—where he can also see you nude. **_Fuck_**. _Why were you so fucked all the time?_

“Higgs—“ You try to warn, but feel yourself being pulled closer to him, akin to an unwilling yet intense force of gravity.

“—I won’t be keeping an eye on you for a while,” He suddenly said, his voice heavy with what you almost thought was melancholy, “You should enjoy it. You can go back to Fragile, patch her up the best you can…go back to being a porter like you used to be before I got here,”

The sight of your lashes fluttering over amazed, wide eyes seemed to have an effect of longing on him; the way his touch took a drastic turn and almost seemed gentle, the golden guarded-plates over the back of his gloved hand scraping against the base of your palm, uncoiling his own fingers from your wrist to hold yours. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t breathe, and you were afraid for a second of all of this being some twisted dream with no blatant truths. Higgs brought your knuckles to the golden rows of teeth, where you were almost certain that if he wasn’t wearing a mask, he’d be twisting the game further by a chaste _kiss_.

“But remember, little bird,”

Before he finishes, gone from a chiral jump that leaves you alone with the boots and black tears streaming down your cheeks, you can hear his finishing whisper against the shell of your ear; hotter than the entirety of the waters.

“Soon, you’ll run out of lives…and then it’ll be _game over.”_


	9. Hiraeth 「9」

## 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐄𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐲

_Well, this was fucking **splendid**._

Higgs didn’t visit you at the Beach that night. Or any of the nights that followed after that.

As Higgs promised, if you could even call it that, he had left you alone for a full week while you tended to Fragile’s condition with the anti-chiralium medication. Thanks to Heartman’s notes and daily doses, Fragile was beginning to slowly revert back to her normal self, where the only effect that was known to her was her physical appearance, but even that alone wasn’t enough to forget about the psyche pain. What was primarily different was the absence of the obnoxious shoulder-devil. It was having rather dismal effect on your daily routine, finding your actions rather sluggish lately as you didn’t need to check your surroundings every-so often anymore. You could look to the sky and feel a pleasant calmness over you instead of a habitual anxiousness or anger; he wasn’t watching you; you would’ve known otherwise. The kiss he placed on your knuckles, you could still feel the cold touch of his mask brandish against your warmer skin, and it was hard not to fight off the urge to furiously scrub at the spot until it was raw and pink.

_If it had been his lips—_

_—His—_

_**“Fuck!”**_ You sprung upright out of bed with wet stars blemishing along your forehead, panting heavily and flushed.

It was seven days since you had last seen him. Seven days of silence. Seven _fucking_ peaceful days without Higgs. You threw your blanket over your head, attempting to block out the ringing silence that filled your ears, hanging so appallingly around your bedroom. Fragile was asleep on the living room couch, and she was especially eager for the morning to come where she would spend the day trying to readjust her ability to chiral jump—and you promised you’d be up early to help her. _Man, fuck me_ , you thought with a hoarse groan, trembling fingers running across the length of your neck that was terribly warm with sweat. And unfortunately, you can’t shake off the feeling of Higgs’ tongue running there. _Fuck everything._

_You **don’t** miss him_, you said with complete certainty. 

That asshole is the reason why everything in your life was so fucked up. He’s an idiot…a terrorist… _a monster._

Whatever the truth was, whatever you wanted to call him—you blatantly ignored those painful signals to try and go back to sleep.

As your eyes fluttered closed, the phosphenes of faded light swirling within complete darkness, there was an odd sting in your chest before slumber consumed you, as you saw the faint twinkle of the golden chiral boots sitting by the door. 

Fragile stretched and flexed her clammy fingers around the grip of her umbrella. Although you had never seen them without the tight black gloves, you knew wholeheartedly that her paling skin didn’t used to look like that; frail and thin with so many veins. The tides of thoughts and emotions were once again clashing at the thought of Higgs, but you managed to swallow all of it down. The two of you resided outside of the bunker today, the air stirring with a warmer weather that was enough to let a pillar of light pierce through the pristine clouds, where you could almost see the slightest sliver of the yellow sun through narrowed eyes. Instead of focusing on the rarer sight, you focused on Fragile in front of you, preparing herself to make her first chiral jump in weeks. It was understandable that she was trying to prolong the act of doing it. Her hesitance was great, but the risk was greater; there was no telling where she might end up or if she could even come back from the Beach.

But you had hope anyway, and sent her an encouraging nod before stretching and dragging one foot out between you. And in that moment, you could practically feel Fragile’s worry spike in the crisp air.

“We’re gonna take this slow,” You instructed softly, pointing at the line in the snow that you drew with your shoe, “Jump from where you’re standing to here. It should be instantaneous, but if it takes longer than four seconds, you’ll need to take another cryptobiote.”

Fragile nods, pulling back and squaring her shoulders, nervous eyes flickering against yours, “This should be easy but…it just feels like it isn’t anymore. I—“

_“—Fragile,”_ You call out with a gentle smile, unfurling your arms away from your chest, “If you worry so much about how you’re gonna get there first, you won’t know what to do when you reach the end.”

That’s what you were taught anyway, and that’s how you’ve managed to make it this far.

Fragile rolls her shoulders one last time, eyes fluttering to the ground as if the snow on top her shoes was the most interesting thing in the world, and yet you could tell she wanted to ask about your golden ones. She didn’t and finally decided to let herself become swallowed in a wispy, sizzling black ripple. Your hand went close to your face in an attempt to fan away the chiral cinders that she left behind, and you prepared that three second countdown while taking a step back from the area of exposure. Two seconds had gone, and you immediately stepped away from the drawn line. 

Once you had taken another breath, Fragile reappeared, hardly any paler than she had been before, yet the grip on her umbrella was punishingly tight. Three seconds, you charted mentally before reaching an arm out, afraid that she might succumb to some kind of aftershock and fall with fatigue. Her eyes pried open, streaming long thin rivers down her cheeks as she turned to look at you—finally smiling. You somehow managed to do so, too, clasping a supportive hand on her shoulder before leading yourself another great distance away, telling her to jump again.

That night, you’re finally blessed with a dream; a dream about the woman in red, who smiled and called out your name.

You wake yourself out of the dream in anger and frustration, ashamed of yourself for thinking that you would’ve wanted to see Higgs instead.

The days that pass by seem different to you now. You’ve returned to work as a porter, trekking through the various areas surrounding Mountain Knot without a steady routine and occasionally requested other porters to stop by and deliver a few more cases of cryptobiotes. The world was a passing phase, almost, and you couldn’t figure out why you weren’t moving along with it so easily anymore. This quiet was new, _lonesomely new_ , and not even Fragile could shake you out of it. After making her first chiral jumps, even managing to jump from one mountain to the other, you both agreed that there was no need to stay cooped up in the bunker any longer—she was well and breathing, able to go back to her life now.

Doctor Heartman’s research notes were nothing too rewarding, and Fragile barely mentioned anything about apocalyptic nightmares. The existence of EE’s is unmentioned by you, and for some reason, you’re alright with it. Instead, she told you other things that she dreamt about; dreams about her father, memories that made her laugh or cry even if they were happy ones. In a way, you were childishly envious of such a phenomenon; dreaming about memories or loved ones that weren’t even tangible in your life anymore, and when you told her that you’ve been having dreams about a certain woman in red, Fragile had revealed to you that she met her, too. And, as if like your life had been yanked from the land of the dead, life was beginning to breathe back into you. 

“I met her when I was a little girl,” She told you, sitting on the couch comfortably with her hands folded over her lap, “I saw her on the Beach, with a red dress and everything. She didn’t look at me or say anything, but it felt like she was calling to me.”

“She said my name,” You say with wet lips, alcohol staining the edges of your heated breath as you were currently drinking the last of your father’s alcohol—and it certainly wasn’t a long task to clear out, “Smiled at me, too. It doesn’t make any fucking sense though; I don’t have DOOMs; I don’t have any direct connections to the Beach and yet I somehow end up there anyway. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you more than I’d like.”

As Fragile examined your sad grin, she stifled a chuckle from her lips, prepared to feast on a stray cryptobiote, “I wouldn’t be surprised…you had a similar reaction when you met Higgs, didn’t you?”

This was the first time in weeks since she’s ever mentioned him. Tentative eyes met with yours and you instantly knew that this substantial amount of denial was getting to you. You didn’t outright blurt your agreement, but only took the time for your mind to settle with the revelation. The alcohol left on the corners of your frowning lips was leaving your lungs with a shock of ozone, everything that you thought was careful and under your control was slipping from you; hell, that’s how you ended up on the Beach, because you didn’t force yourself hard enough to report Higgs to BRIDGES. You didn’t disclose the location of his bunker, only seeking out your own comfort in this hollow home.

Carnage rested in your palms and you were too busy playing with it to wipe it off.

“I don’t know what he wants from you,” Fragile hums, letting another cryptobiote squirm between her fingers, “But I’m certain that whatever he has planned; it’s going to fail. You’re tougher than him. You won’t break,”

You look away, pondering on the thought if you were already broken.

“I’m going to talk to Lockne tomorrow, ask her about your cufflinks and see if she can manage to connect part of the network to Central Knot and the Beach directly. That way, you’ll have immediate contact with officers that’ll turn Higgs in the next time you see him.”

Lockne _is_ brilliant, you agree, but you don’t know how she’ll react in pairing up one of her creations with the likes of BRIDGES. You’ve known for a long time that after Mama’s disappearance, Lockne had no intention in affiliating herself with whatever she touched. It was yet another regret; you should’ve asked or tried to pry a little in order to resolve whatever was going on between the two of them, but common courtesy and the need to rekindle that deteriorating bond of yours stopped you. The impression that your parents had left on you was getting bigger, and you hated them even more for that.

“Fragile—“ You tried to say, but she already cut you off by raising a slow hand in front of your face.

“—I’m gonna get that son of a bitch,” Her words are laced with such an unflinching amount of ire, that your mind is left completely blank, “The next time he brings you to the Beach, I’ll be there. I’m gonna be the one to pull the trigger.”

You paused, turning away from Fragile with your gaze locked onto the dust particles floating at the tip of your nose.

_Good_ , you thought. 

After that night, Fragile left for the east, leaving you with yet another week of silence and no dreams.

_Central Knot City is **gone**._

You ask yourself if this is another dream or if this was punishment for enjoying the peace and quiet. And when you finally pried your eyes away from the newsfeed, hearing the unmistakable sound of Fragile’s chiral jump at the corner of the living room—shedding tears that you were sure wasn’t initially caused by the travel—it was finally safe to say that you hated it. You hated this fucking ‘ _peace and quiet_ ’, life’s way of pitying you while rubbing salt on the wound at the same time. None of this shit was gonna fly anymore, Fragile was certain of that; she would be staying at the east for a longer time again to pick up a few things and you decide not to question it.

Fragile Express’s boat was offered to you, where Fragile questioned whether or not you’d want to come and get away from all of this. However, you reckon that it would be a better decision to stay here. Being buried in your work would take your mind off of everything, and maybe, just maybe, you’d find some real peace under all this. Especially since you don’t know the east coast at all, not even through the help of your odradek would give you enough reassurance to rove throughout Capital and the ruins of Central Knot.

There wasn’t much coverage of the incident that led to Central Knot City’s destruction, but you know that it couldn’t be any different than what happened in Middle Knot; a void out caused by terrorists and BTs. And your blood runs cold at the thought of what Higgs’ agenda could’ve been, if this was the reason why he hasn’t shown himself to you. His DOOMs capabilities were certainly enough to instill some kind of extended security measures throughout BRIDGES; two cities gone just like that. And going there, where there would be a high chance in seeing him in action again, you’d preferred a painful death.

Especially with that spike in MULEs and BTs.

“Fragile,” You ask tightly, your heart hammering beneath your ribcage where you’re sure its echoey thunder claps rumble the walls, “What the _fuck_ happened?”

Those red memories burnt behind your eyelids, scorching and profound with a silent mourn; watching an entire city go up in flames and is left into nothing but ash. Fragile can sense your teary rancor and disconcertment, coming close to hold you as more lives have crossed over into the afterlife. All thanks to Higgs— _all thanks to you._ You let yourself be touched by Fragile, hugged by her shaking arms, and her head rests against yours while you begin to let out a shuddering sigh. She is astounded that you haven’t crumbled up into tears like she had, yet decides not to delve deeper into the aftermath.

“It was him,” She says quietly, and releases you, “He caused a void out with a colossal BT, killed a corpse disposal team…along with a couple dozen people.”

You frowned behind the back of your hand, rubbing your eyes angrily and sank back down onto the couch again, “Was there any sign of him? At all?”

Fragile lets a quiet sigh escape her lips, shaking her head, and summons in a gentle ripple her umbrella that she clasps with a firm hand. You figured she wouldn’t stay for long; only coming to find out if you were okay. You wonder what you’d say to him the next time you meet, that is, if BRIDGES doesn’t get to him first, of which you deem it as nearly impossible. Would you just greet him and silence and actually pull yourself together and shoot him? Would you yell and scream at him, even beg him to stop so that innocent people would be spared of jumpstarting the gun?

You couldn’t stomach with the idea of doing either, you couldn’t stand the thought of _him_ at all.

_Fuck him_ , you thought, _fuck him and his stupid…stupid existence_.

Fragile intends to head back east and you don’t stop her, bidding her with a silent nod of goodbye and is left staring at the newsfeed that barely scratches the surface of the incident of Middle Knot; of Higgs. She was bound to have more business to attend to after being gone for so long from her express company, yet you feared that this would be the last time you ever saw her again. You sit in the dark for, god knows how long, and decide to sleep where you sat on the floor, punishing yourself with being welcome to dreams of the Beach that could crumble into flames, of universes that could melt into fire and become awash with blood. You beg for something, anything that would put this endless fucking misery to death.

The dream that you suffer through is of him, smiling and calling your name, and you don’t bother waking out of it.

It had been two days since Central Knot City had been destroyed and it was still like a fresh horror to your mind. 

There were some recent emails from Lockne regarding your mental and physical condition— _going full out mom mode_ —and how she managed to calibrate the cufflinks to BRIDGES’ security protocols, even mentioning that it wasn’t a fun experience—to which you almost chuckled reading. Now, there was certainty that the next time you saw Higgs, you would be able to report him and pinpoint his exact location through certain means. Heartman didn’t contact you, and you were a little worried that he might’ve dropped from cardiac arrest and didn’t wake up, however you chose not to let those intrusive thoughts disrupt your work. Although you weren’t feeling quite ready to go back east, you mainly lingered throughout the south and within Mountain Knot, delivering regular packages and such for preppers and others who had decided to up their safeguards after the incident, fearing that they might be next.

You hoped not, shit.

The length as to how much safety you had these days was imbalanced, where one place would be fine to travel through during a single day, and then come the morning, you’d either stay or get the hell out of dodge and back to the bunker. MULEs were everywhere, you noticed on one of your routes, watching as a few campsites were in the process of being set up by the evo-devo technologist. It was just south of their shelter, and you were half-heartedly disappointed that the recharging spring close by wouldn’t be safe to visit. The chiral boots were working wonders on the days that you couldn’t make deliveries with your reverse trike, and yet you refused to acknowledge where they came from nor thank the person who gave them to you.

_This is what you wanted_ , you said, _and the peace was finally beginning to settle in._

Thanks to Lockne’s cufflinks and Alex’s provided information on the Weather Station, you were picking up faint readings across the network of an oncoming storm of timefall in the southern area where you resided. Today, in the zenith of sunset, you had finished making deliveries for the Veteran Porter. It was your first time being the area and you just scraped by the massive formations of BTs. Through light breathing and remembering basic training you had with your father, you were able to maneuver around the outskirts of the terrain. Though, the cargo strapped to your speed skeleton did get a little heavy and you ended up falling over right before you were in the clear—where you instantly sprang up from the ground and bolted the fuck out of there. Luckily, the Veteran Porter was kind enough to let the dirtied cargo slide and thanked you for your time.

Smartly, you chose a different route on the way home.

The storm of timefall didn’t have the same effect as last time; not as sharp bits of hail, but as a harsh thundering downpour that made your regular movements atop your reverse trike stiff and rigid. You were the utmost careful not to let the hood of your coveralls slip off your forehead, and by switching the gears of the trike, you hoped that it would prevent from doing so. The biting cold was harsh on your cheeks, especially as you and your vehicle were laying siege against the incline of snow that is harrowed by the two-set wheels. Lightning collapses overhead near the mountain peaks, splitting the grey clouds in twain where it reveals the sliver of moonlight, and you ultimately decide to take the shorter route.

Cutting diagonally towards the left of the slope, you challenge this fucked up world’s course of nature by picking up speed. You were particularly worried about dying, _no_ , you don’t really fear death as much as it annoyed you. All you had really done was take a glance behind you, fond eyes traced over the lion sticker, as if hoping that it would act as some golden good luck charm. The rubbery grip handles sputtered louder when you shifted gears, cutting through an endless sequence of cold, damp lashes against your shoulders that forced you to keep your head down, cursing at the fact that you didn’t have eye-protection. You didn’t care about slippery dangers, only worried about what came down from above as you spent so much time incessantly tending to Fragile who suffered it first-hand.

You hoped she was doing alright, finally settling with the thought that you had formed—and had been forming—connections with people.

Once you finally reached the tunnel of the bunker, you were oddly met with the strange absence of the building’s automatic illumination. There was no BRIDGES hologram fizzing in the air in front of the entrance, the terminal didn’t register you or your vehicle once you stepped inside the sensor ring, and there was no sign of it working either when you tried checking the logs. You let out a low groan, trying to come to terms with the fact that the power had been knocked out of the building, where you would have to wait for the timefall to let up and fix the outages, and endure the night without electrical appliances. _Life is really letting you have it lately, huh?_

You lean the reverse trike against the tunneling walls and strip away your soaking wet gear, unclasping the odradek sensor from your back before setting it down and giving you time to roll out the stress and ache from your shoulders. Nights on snow-crested mountains weren’t particularly a sight to behold, only fogged with total darkness and only left of an uncharted field of cold light grey that sank under your weight. Kicking off the chiral boots, you unclipped a canteen of water and chugged it eagerly, watching the rain for an unknown amount of time before finally captiously hauling your shredded gear down the stairs and coming to the door. 

Once the palm of your hand brushed against the protruding doorknob, you froze, feeling a warm wetness drip from the entire length of the thin metal. Splaying your fingers in front of your face, there was a perfectly cued clap of lightning that brightened the entirety of the bunker for only a second, and it was all the time you needed to recognize the color that stained your hand. _Red_ —a lone crimson worm trickled down to your wrist, scarlet rimmed in its trail that had come from a big parent spot left streaked against the doorframe, finding that it was horrifically and undoubtedly already cracked open—the lock was busted.

Someone was in there.

Someone was inside your fucking bunker.

Fuck _. Fuck. **Fuck**._

Your dad’s gun is in the house, hanging above the light just above the door frame. There’s no fucking way the intruder would’ve found it, right? Right? God, you hoped not. The door gives an ungodly creak, the steel beneath the pads of your fingers left trembling along the silent walls, and the top row of your teeth gnaw hard on your lip. You might’ve just fucked yourself over already, and you didn’t even make it past the door. Waiting anxiously among that pause for any sign of movement, your thighs tremble as you force yourself to stretch forward. You step inside, careful not to let the balls of your heels hit the floor first and let your toes take the weight, craning your neck high to find that the— _ **fuck** …no way._

The gun wasn’t there.

_Okay,_ you try to steel yourself, practically sweating bullets, _okay, what else can I do?_

Your mind is scrambling to remember what other type of long-range, break-neck speeded weapons that your dad kept in the house. Knives aren’t your strongest point, but there were plenty of them that could put some distance between you and the assailant if they decide to charge and be a last resort. You don’t bring a knife to a gun fight, but it doesn’t seem like you have a fucking choice! You let the door hang open, saving you time from opening it to run if they manage to chase you—though the fact that there was blood heavily suggests that someone was injured, and you don’t plan on making it next.

With a steady pace towards the empty living room, you don’t feel the surge of relief inside your chest just yet. Your mind is racing, moving with the pace of your pounding heartbeat that nearly splits it in two by its throbbing intensity, wondering if the intruder in your home could just be Fragile who is heavily injured. She might need help from you, not almost shitting your pants just because she broke the lock. Your spine straightened at the thought, beginning to slowly scan the room for Fragile, prying your lips apart to call her.

“About time you returned to the nest,” A voice—of which you knew _too_ _damn well_ —breathed deeply against the shell of your ear, thick as molasses, “You just couldn’t wait for me to die, could you?”

You spin, ready to rip this motherfucking bastard to shreds before letting out a guttural choke, crushed down by the entirety of his weight that dropped onto you without warning. Wetness splattered against your palms, and there was a brief moment of repugnance and bafflement in you when you tried to catch him, thinking that this asshole just pissed himself or threw up on you. When the revolt subsided, the warmth of this taller, stronger, and alarmingly weaker being that shoved his nose into the crook of your neck made it evident that this _idiot_ …really was an idiot. Your hand slipped under his shoulders, arms curling around the span of his broad back, where you could finally see your skin that was just dripping with blood.

_Higgs…?_

“Sorry…you haven’t won…yet.”

His head slipped right off your shoulder, where his entire body followed with him, hitting the ground by your feet where you could finally fucking breathe. Higgs was undergoing hypovolemia, and he came to your bunker for some goddamn fucking reason, thinking that you would help him; he was fucking _dying_.

You look down at him, eyes glassy and wide—one raging question burning in your mind.

_Should I finally kill him?_

* * *

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	10. Metanoia「10」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐏𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐖𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐓𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

_You were so fucked, so **motherfucking** fucked._

_This wasn’t supposed to happen! But then again, what the fuck **else** was supposed to happen!?_

Sprawled out on the couch in ruined military-issued gear, soaking wet from a mixture of diminished timefall rain water and so much oozing and sticky blood, was Higgs. The same terrorist— _idiot_ —that had managed to make your life a living hell ever since he decided to watch the destruction of a city with you like it was a fucking romantic date. Your duty as a porter was screaming, begging for you to just dump him out into timefall and let poetic justice finish him off. Fragile would’ve appreciated the gesture, but you wanted to keep your word and let her kill him herself. Higgs wasn’t moving, he was just bleeding out on your carpet and cushions and just…heavily and seriously unconscious, dwindling on the lines of expecting you to fix him. He knew you weren’t too far off from a person of kindness, but this was fucking insane. He was fucking insane.

But there you were, pacing around the living room trying to figure out what to do with him. 

You don’t know how long you stood on that spot in the living room after he managed to surprise and collapse on you after breaking in. You were too bewildered at the fact that Higgs even showed up in the first place, after leaving you for weeks without any dreams, visits, or anything that could set up an annoying banter. 

He broke into your home; he knows where you live. He brought you to the Beach, the only thing that you ever feared in this godforsaken life, and made you suffer through the incidents of two destroyed cities by his hands. 

Where’s the gun? Where’s the _goddamn_ gun? You tried looking around the living room, only to be met with dull knives and useless shotgun shells and bullets. _Fuck!_

Your hands dig into the roots of your hair and give a harsh directive pull every-so often, your jaw tightening in a hard clench whenever you think of some kind of solution but in the end flitters away, your muscles are constantly jumping and fervent with your heartbeat as it takes your mind racing for miles. Question after question. Dilemma after dilemma. You don’t know how much of this bullshit you can take. You grimace sourly when you realize that you were tugging at your hair with hands covered in blood— _Higgs’ blood_ —and you finally turn to give him a narrowed glare full of blazing rancor.

As you peered into his face, where you felt like you were being repelled at the sight of his tattooed eyebrows, you threw a bit of caution into the wind and reached a hand over his lips. Bruised a little, you examined, split at the corner, nothing a little rubbing alcohol and a small band-aid can fix. But then again, you were heavily stuck on whether or not you should even spare a second on wasting it on him. All these feelings that had been badgering and hunting you down throughout these past few weeks were finally coming to reap the last bit of peace you had left in your soul, and you were unable to settle with the toll it brought as you finally slumped down onto the floor. 

“What the fuck…” You rather whined than groaned into your hands that reeked of copper, and you shifted your forearms under your chin to look up at Higgs, “Seriously, dude? You couldn’t have gone and destroyed someone’s life other than mine?”

You weren’t sure if you were imagining it or if he was actually listening to you, but you could’ve sworn before you shoved your head into your hands that you saw Higgs give the faintest of smirks.

Assessing the damage that Higgs had suffered, it was within your totally-unprofessional opinion that he had gotten caught in a void out. You were highly unqualified to bring out any real supportive theories, but all you knew for certain was that whatever happened; _this fucker deserved it._ It was an excruciating process peeling off the layers of clothes he had, yet with trembling hands and jittery movements, you were finally able to disrobe him of anything minorly heavy and guarded. His bullet-proof vest was torn, the ends of cotton fillings had been singed into charred bits that turned to ash between your pinched fingers.

Along the seams were very familiar streaks of black— _BT trails_ —hiking up the length of the back area and stained the hem of his hooded cloak. Red, black, gold, and flaxen yellow colors were a dizzying swirl within your periphery, yet you were smart enough not to fix him. You took his BB pod and set it down on the coffee table, setting it next to the paired odradek sensor, wrapping them with his cloak, and hissed tightly when you found that it was soaked in blood. When you turned back to him, you found the primary source for his heavy blood loss; seeing a mangled, grotesque laceration on his ribs that managed to make a visceral yell come out your lungs, reeling back from its brutality. 

“Jesus, Higgs,” You whispered breathlessly, running your fingers along the rim of the tender pink swells of his skin, frowning at how warm he had gotten, “Looks like you even underestimated yourself.”

There was no doubt in your mind that this idiot was caught in his own void out in Middle Knot. It would make sense that he would’ve been blown too far from his fellow Homo Demens, taking two days to chiral jump from the east coast to get here; to get help from you. You rolled your eyes as you unconsciously jab your fingers straight onto the wound, what a fucking idiot. The realization of what you had done to Higgs’ wound made you rip your hand away after there was a strangled guttural noise that came out of Higgs’ mouth. You peeled your eyes away from the bleeding wound again to stare at Higgs, quickly pressing your bloody fingers against a pressure point on the side of his neck.

“Oh, Higgs.” You sighed, feeling nothing.

_Oh,_ you blinked, _he’s dead._

Oh.

“What?” You blurted, standing up quickly.

What? _What? Wait, **what!?**_

**He’s fucking dead!?**

Your hands flew to his wrist and pressed hard onto where his heartbeat would travel to, only to find that there was no shuddering beneath your touch. Incredulous eyes scanning Higgs for any sign of his chest moving, his nostrils pinching smaller, or his mouth falling open to release a single breath. You clamored to place your palm and head onto his chest, trying to feel or listen for a heartbeat—yet there was still absolutely _nothing_ no matter how many times you checked. You tore away from the corpse that was now in your living room, letting yourself settle with the cold sweat that was trickling down your spine that you could’ve sworn was spelling out the word ‘ _murderer_ ’ in one lone river.

You killed him. You _killed_ Higgs.

_Why…how exactly are you supposed to be feeling right now? What do you feel right now?_

“Hey, God,” You muttered with a low voice, unable to tear your eyes away from Higgs, “It’s me, ya girl… Does it still count as a sin for accidentally killing a terrorist?”

It surprised you that you managed to let out a snort during this predicament, shaking your head, no way God’s gonna deny you from getting a golden ticket to the pearly gates. There’ll be endless valleys of hot springs, people who deliver whatever you want to your every beck and call, and an endless supply of pizza waiting for you in celebration of killing this bastard. Demons would cower at the sight of you while angels would be singing happily as they kissed the ground you walked on.

_…Would they?_

Why the **hell** do you feel like this?

Time is frequently a lost cause for you to keep track of, you don’t know how long you ended up staring at Higgs’ corpse from the floor. You don’t want to touch him, even though he was bound to undergo necrosis. The BTs were undoubtedly on the move up the mountains, and it was either now or never to let him go rolling. For some reason, you almost want to pray that he wasn’t dead, hoping that all of this was just another sick dream that was lasting a little longer than normal. What would be the reason for that? What kind of inner victories would there be if Higgs was dead? Would there even be a downside to any of it? 

It takes a long time for you to pluck yourself off of the ground, and you come to Higgs’ side with great hesitancy, unsure of what to do next. _He looks peaceful_ , you think involuntarily, _doesn’t look like he gets much sleep, at all_. Another small snort shook your body, your fingers delicately tracing the outlines of his equation tattoos where a few numbers and letters were still scratched raw; he probably tattooed his forehead because he doesn’t want anyone to see wrinkles. You got up from your knees and reached out to move him, figuring that it would be a relatively good idea to carry him outside. Whether or not he would rot or become a BTs next meal—which would be rather improbable since he could control the damned things—would be a better idea than letting _him—_

_—And_ all thoughts of throwing him out into the snow to die was cut short; Higgs had sprung upwards from the couch like someone shocked him with a defibrillator. He didn’t seem to have noticed you crouched beside him, where the sight of him literally coming back from the dead almost made you piss yourself, and his hands were slowly coming out to fold over his wounds. Blood over blood, wound over wound, it wasn’t enough for him to throw him back into unconsciousness— _or afterlife_ —and you were too busy being scared shitless over what the fuck had just happened.

And as Higgs finally turned his head to you, noses barely brushing together, he somehow managing to flash that sardonic smile in your face, “Looks like I’m not out of lives just—“

You don’t let him finish as you sock him in the jaw, where you are completely sure that you had killed him again with brute strength.

_He’s a fucking repatriate._

When Higgs woke up again from the Seam an hour later, he was truly shocked to find that you had managed to patch him up with what you had; a short roll of gauze, ointment patches, and a shit ton of band-aids. He thought that you’d kill him over and over again out of relentless impulse, but was reminded that you were smarter than that. He found you slumped over the dining room table, chugging two beers simultaneously but knew amusedly that it would never be enough to ease your frazzled nerves in this situation. You don’t look at him as you’re too tired hanging onto your said sanity by a thread; all your worries and plans were thrown out the window after sending you down a hellish spiral, leaving you withered and dry of all options than to stick with this idiot. Higgs was alive no matter what you did, you killed him twice already, surely that meant something to someone. He was literally a regular cheater in death, apparently, but the real mystery out of him was why the fuck he sought you out in the first place.

You only figured out the answer when Higgs’ tired groan reached your ears, fervent eyes flickering from the empty crushed cans and to his paling red body turning on the stained couch, “I knew we had a bond, darlin’. How fortunate for me though…I don’t need to burn.”

“Can you shut up for once in your life?” You caustically snap, rolling your eyes at his smile that turns crestfallen—a big, childish pout, “God…even coming back from the dead, you’re annoying.”

“I missed you, too, little bird,” He coos, tilting his head on the armrest to stare at you with those damn stormy eyes of his— _people just seem to like dying on your couch lately, huh_ —and you unwillingly gnaw the bottom of your lip, “I’ll remember your…sporadic hospitality. This makes us even.”

You let out a low growl, narrowing your eyes at him, “We are not even,”

The pout on his face softens where your incensed glare hardens, the sting that aches in your chest grows bigger—painful and raging, “You’ve put me through so much shit these last few weeks. You nuke two cities, take me to the fucking Beach, and put Fragile under timefall. We are far from being even.”

Honestly, you don’t know what you had expected. The act of groveling or begging for forgiveness from Higgs was somehow far beyond him, he’s the type to soak up things like that from other people. He must’ve thought that’d be you; maybe he thought that you would coddle him, and maybe that was why he looked so genuinely upset and became silent right now. Underneath that crestfallen countenance, however, you could see the faintest stir of amusement—as per usual coming from an egotistical idiot. You got up from your seat at the table and came down close to his side on the couch, trying to take a chance and pick him apart yourself. 

Plus, it was about time you redress the bandages.

“If you don’t want me twisting my fingers in your wound again, you’ll shut up,” You warn as you had seen the corners of his lips lift and open—surely about to give you some vulgar comment—and he just lets you do your work, “Keep still. You’re being held together by bandaids, one wrong turn and you’ll bleed out. Not that I care if you die again, I just don’t want you staining any more of my carpet.”

He wants to say that’s a lie, you know that’s what he thinks, but he hums instead, “I would never bite the hand that feeds me— _Agh!”_

You did warn him and followed up on that promise, throwing a disgruntled glare at his twisted expression while you scratch the wound at his side, left completely vulnerable when you peeled off the soaking bandages. Higgs’ tense and writhing body beneath you finally settles after a few seconds, before you’re met with a harsh glare yourself. _Maybe this guy wasn’t a masochist_ , you think aimlessly, beginning to rewrap the wound in a much longer roll of gauze. At this point, nothing would really surprise you. In any case, Higgs thankfully turned docile and kept still, eyes never leaving you while yours were fighting the urge to look, too.

_Blood was constantly soaking your hands_ , you think, prying apart your fingers that feel slick and warm, _you really need to stop this._

“Man, take me back to two days ago,” Higgs finally says, craning his eyes up to the ceiling, a whimsically dramatic sigh heaving from his chest, “I had so much fun destroying it.”

You didn’t press into his wound again, strangely, only folding over the creases to wrap him in tighter, “Of course you did, you’re a terrorist. That’s what you people consider as fun.”

Higgs shifted his head, reaching out with his fingers to curl and play with the stray ends of your hair, and you can feel that smile laid on you, “Unlike you, right? You little porters…preppers…ordinary people.”

“Those who don’t kill for fun,” You finally flicker your eyes at him, slate blue and messy streaks of black filling your vision, “Whatever you want to call us.”

_Us?_ That was a stupid way of putting it. Ordinary people weren’t always the same, they were assholes in one way or another, nice to others in their own right. Higgs was just…perfect for any sort of category. Maybe that’s his own fault, him claiming to be a god and all. You don’t know what kind of person he really is, if he was just a guy who didn’t get enough attention as a child, or that he really does believe he is the ender of the world. But what matters now, unfortunately, was your unyielding courtesy as a human being to finish your duty in patching him up. _He will die again_ , you think, _someday. For real._ And maybe you’d like to be there when that happens.

“What if the way I am is the way I am?” His question makes you stop altogether from that duty, dubious embers in your eyes and his as you both look at each other—as if neither of you had expected him to say that—but he continues, “What if, when everything else is different, I’m not?”

You don’t know if there’ll even be a ‘ _when_ ’. Not when he’s so bat-shit crazy on destroying the world. 

“Then…” You almost don’t know ‘ _then_ ’ either, but for some reason, you had a reliance, “You really aren’t anything special.”

You don’t know how it happened, or how he found the strength to do so, but he plucked you right up from the ground and lifted you straight onto his lap. His hands were clasped firm underneath your hips, his grip unrelenting and let his nails leave crescent moons on your skin. With your hands are splayed on his chest, you can feel the firmness of his sinews, his throbbing heartbeat just under the base of your palm. This time, in this unwanted straddle, you’re left completely speechless on top of Higgs whose grin makes the tip of your ears burn red. On blaring instincts and flustered bravery, you press your thigh harder against Higgs’ wound in an attempt for him to shudder back in pain again and let you go. Although his forehead satisfyingly scrunched upwards in pain, you’re the one who’s left repressing a whimper as his hold on you punishingly tightens.

_“Y-you…”_ You’re flushed from his hold, yet never letting your blazing glare falter, “Son of a—you’re fucking injured—let me go!”

Tuts of disapproval leave his lips in a heated cloud fanning against your cheeks, “Listen for a minute, little bird, ’s kind of important. And the sooner you stop squirming, the sooner you can come off me.”

“You couldn’t have fucking told me that while I was next to you?” You grumble, ignoring the hand that slides up the length of your waist and falls against your arm, “What the fuck—“

“—Sam Porter Bridges is on the move,” He says with all the scorn you can possibly fathom in the world, your hands unconsciously moving around his wrist, “He’s going to start making his way across America to connect the chiral network. Strands and everything.”

You bite the bottom of your lip as you feel Higgs’ palms glide over the back of your knuckles, yearning to hold your unwilling hands, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Figured it’d be a good idea to let you know where I’ll be lately. Not like last time, leaving you high and dry.”

“I wasn’t—“ 

Higgs unravels his fingers from yours, the absence of his heated skin gives unwanted goosebumps riding up your colder flesh. He’s no longer holding you, setting you free from his coarse grip and decides that you suddenly don’t fucking exist anymore by falling asleep. It almost astounds you how fast the idiot managed to succumb to slumber, but you’re oddly accepting towards the fact that you’d put him through death more than once today—sure he’d be tired after all that. You scramble to get off of his hips, practically bolting to your room where you’re left sinking to your knees. Frustration and reckless abandon had finally beaten you raw.

_Fuck this_ , you think, _fuck absolutely everything._

You don’t report him to BRIDGES. 

_Why the fuck don’t you report him to BRIDGES?_

Was it maybe because he called you for every little fucking thing ever? Or was because he was border-line deliriously annoying as he asked you to come in the room every-so fucking minute just to check if you were real? Maybe, you thought, maybe. You had no time to give him the benefit of the doubt as he laid on your couch for… _god, two days now._ At first, your courtesy as a decent human being was thick and hardened like your original attitude for handling an injured idiot like him. However, whenever Higgs had begun to take advantage of your decency on the first night, you were absolutely done with him. 

He had been ordering pizzas nonstop, and it was more than fifteen times before you had to wait by the terminal of your bunker and apologize to many upset porters who’ve had to travel up to Mountain Knot. Apparently, Higgs decided that the porters that would be delivering the pizzas would be those who lived the farthest from your home, and that was just petty cruelty for not getting to blow anything up while being bed-ridden. It wasn’t all bad though in the end; you were offered a selection of your own toppings of pizza whenever Higgs made an order. Yet, it was about time for his diet to switch from greasy foods to cryptobiotes, now that wasn’t at all an easy task.

He almost managed to eat Horns, where you quickly slapped him and took your precious friend to safety. You were willing to put up with the teasing that came afterward— _you’ve got a cryptobiote for a pet, how cute_ —and you shut him up quite easily by pressing against his wound or just plunging a dull knife into him.

Did you mention that you had actually managed to kill him three more times now? And yet, while you had done it through either stabbing or hitting, you were unfortunate in how he still strangely kept the location of your dad’s gun from you.

_Fuck him_ , you thought with complete assurance, _fuck Higgs._

“Higgs, get the hell off me.” You grunted as you had tried to redress his wound, painfully interrupted by his body hauling upward and turning over on his side, reaching out to curl his arms against your waist.

“No, I’m not letting you go,” Of course he’d be stubborn, why did you expect him not to be, “It’s too early to get out of bed.”

“This isn’t your bed; this is my couch. And I’d appreciate it if you lay back down and stop bleeding all over it.”

Calling Fragile somehow wasn’t an option anymore, unfortunately. She wasn’t answering any of your calls and you assumed that it was partially due to the distance from Mountain Knot and the east. You figured there would be some connection or transmission failure of the sort, even though an ailment like DOOMs—there were levels after all. There is a gnawing anxiety lately, making your appetite for pizza and MREs almost completely nonexistent. You were busy taking care of Higgs’ wound which was a particularly stubborn factor within the list of reasons why he hadn’t left your bunker yet. The effects of a void out were especially a nasty thing to deal with— _you don’t think there had been a case such as Higgs’_ —being so close to a void out and managed to survive with some minor scathing.

It was irritating as much as it was surprising how Higgs was nonchalant to all of it. He acted like the wound was like a scrape on the knee or something, a pin-prick, acting on grueling pride and flaunted just because he was a repatriate. He constantly sought out your affection than your half-assed medical skills instead—only for you to slap or stab him—and it was painfully often that you would have to put up with his whining objections while you were redressing his wounds.

Unfortunately, often was…all the fucking time.

“You know, little bird,” He hummed as his cheek rested atop the crevice of your thighs, “We’ve known each other for so long—“

_“—Unfortunately—“_

“—And I don’t even know your name,” Higgs peers upwards with—dare you say it—sheepish slate-blue eyes, yet his sharp grin never fades, “It’s important that we be truthful to each other. Bonds, y’know? Don’t you trust me?”

You release an exasperated sigh, setting down your roll of clean gauze to the side before frowning, “I trust that you know how to be annoying.”

“And exciting,” He adds, rubbing small circles into your skin with his thumb aimlessly, “You smell good, darlin’. But you forget that your smell gives me answers. I know just about every little thing about you. About your daddy and momma…about his gun,”

_Motherfucker,_ you glare.

“But I don’t know your name,” Higgs reaches a hand up, the back of his head sinking deeper into the cushion of your flesh, beginning to caress his knuckles against the side of your cheek, “Why don’t you tell me?”

You don’t see a reason why you shouldn’t; you didn’t have collateral damage to spare in your life, they were pretty much dead to you already. Yet, you don’t give into his curiosity, acting on a bit of revenge by leaving him with no answers. It was the most you could do for now, since you couldn’t even kill him properly. Your hand slides up the length of his bicep to his forearm, the pads of your fingers feeling every dip of his muscles beneath his black pullover, where you can feel some kind of startling apprehension come from Higgs’ breath. You don’t do anything but clasp the back of his hand with your own in a gentle grip, removing it from your cheek. 

What’s surprising out of all of this is that you don’t crack a single frown or glare, or any other kind of expressive resentment. Maybe that’s what discards the sardonic mockery from Higgs’ face as you merely let him stay there, his head unmoved from your lap.

“Shut the fuck up,” You say softly, deciding to catch up on the fourteen hours of sleep you had missed ever since this idiot came here, your head falling back on the backrest of the couch, “Sleep.”

You don’t give him answers. He doesn’t deserve any.

After all, you’re still searching for your own. 

You dream of the woman in the red dress, standing on the Beach alone and smiling at you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Her voice is saccharine, gentle blue eyes that should have been the color of these repugnant decaying seas, “I have some things to tell you.”

_Who is this woman_ , is your first thought. _Why was she talking to you_ , was your next. You don’t have DOOMs, you’re not of any value that would be worth putting any lives at risk. Being a simple porter was how you always described yourself, not one to help people, and certainly not the type to take care of injured terrorists. When you turn your head away from her for a second, strangely compelled to not do so, the siege of terror doesn’t hit you when you find yourself on the Beach again. Beached whales, dead fish, decaying crabs—the whole deal. Yet these sluggish movements that you don’t control makes a revolting cluster of bile reach your throat.

_This woman,_ you think, _what the hell was she?_

“America is a lie, did you know that?” She says, a certainly interesting thing to know, but you have no choice but to bite back your tongue and listen, “Almost everything in this world is a lie. The truth is that all of us are just scraping by in this life…dull to the beauty given to us.”

The grey waves beat angrily against the shores, and you can see a similar ominous cloud in the distance roll just above its horizon. For a second, you wonder what else is beyond the Beach, if it’s all just connected or if it’s a realm all on its own. It’s mystery was a thing you were determined to keep in your life; you hate it here, it makes you sick. This woman doesn’t make you feel any different, but she repels what visible disgust you have to show just to get you to halt from her gentle gaze and listen. You don’t know this woman, you don’t trust her. However, something begs for you to just…listen to what she has to say.

“You’re a strand to all of this,” She says, the end of her red heels sinking into the black sand, “You are a lie.”

_No, I—_

**—What?**

These are not your thoughts.

“I know that you can see the truth. You’ve lived your whole life denying it. It’s painful, isn’t it?” She comes closer with a delicate hand reaching out to you, but you can’t move your legs in order to back away, “That’s what makes you special, it’s what’s kept you alive. You’re smart…smart enough to see that you…are the truth.”

_I’m just a—_

**_—Why are you telling me this?_ **

The dull roar of the ocean isn’t what makes you shake down to your knees, but the resilient bile that crawled up the walls of your throat to come pouring out of your mouth. Your eyes slam shut on instinct, trying to heave out whatever it was festering inside of you, trying to claw its way out. This woman doesn’t move, you can still see the blood-red color of her heels at the height of your periphery, and the hand she extended doesn’t come down to reach you. When you look down, all you see is black; you’ve vomited up a puddle of tar. Revolt courses throughout your veins, fear finally beginning to spike up your heart and uneven the pace of your staggering breath. You shove yourself away, farther from this woman who still looks sweet and angelic, and far from what you thought you saw upon your reflection.

You…you thought you saw yourself wearing Higgs’ mask.

The feeling is like electricity, sparkling against the hard bumps of your skin and rattles up the length of your curving flesh. It’s vile and twists your stomach into knots, with more streams of blackened tears and saliva trailing out the sides of your face. You hate this, you want to get out of this sick dream, and you try to clamor forward to beg for mercy from this woman. _She seems to be someone here_ , you think, _not of this world but of here_. She’s a god here.

“You are the truth,” She says gently against the shell of your ear, her arm finally circling around your waist to hold you close, “You have survived. You are special.”

How many dreams like this are you going to have? How many more times do you have to go to the Beach to search for answers that’ll just end up making you ask more questions? Will this wretched cycle ever end? Will nothing truly save you from this awful place?

You squeeze your eyes shut, honing your focus on the sound of your ragged breath, desperately pleading for all of this pain to end.

“I’m not special,” You choke out into her blonde hair, trembling terribly against the crook of her neck, “You’re not real!”

No, she isn’t.

Your head jerks upwards sorely from the top of the backrest of the couch, bare skin glistening from the sheer layer of sweat, completely and utterly free from the clutches of the Beach and that woman. Darkness floods your vision but it comes as this odd blinding white hot pain. It doesn’t form and bubble in your throat, thank god, but it certainly leaves your hoarse and terribly dehydrated. Your warm flesh boils with stress, and you make no effort in heightening it to move and relieve yourself—not wanting to wake Higgs up and let him see you like this. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that you hadn’t moved. You weren’t within the comforts of your bed; you couldn’t cry here without being so blatantly obvious.

He’ll win if you do so.

You can feel the weight of Higgs’ head rest on your legs, his hair unkempt and soft within the loose pinch between your fingers. While the nape of his neck brushed against the area above your knee, you felt a sense of relief pour over you as you found his body was much cooler than yours. Yet you refuse to act on this vulgar yearning to be closer, keeping yourself stiff and rigid under him as he continues to sleep. The cufflinks around your wrist suddenly seizes all previous apprehensions you had swarming throughout your head. _Everything would come to an end,_ you think—the cufflinks around your wrist would send many BRIDGES members up to your location, as long as you two stayed like this; as long as you kept hesitating. _There would be something relatively better than killing him endlessly,_ you think, but decide not to act on it.

_You decide not to act on a lot of things lately_ , you think with a tender hint of sadness.

“You’re so cute when you’re half asleep like this,” A deep, rugged voice brings you from your thoughts, blazing eyes brought down to meet his, where you could just barely see the brewing storm from the hazy orange light of your cufflinks, “Though…your post-nightmare expression kind of ruins it.”

Turning away from him, thankful for the obscurity of the room that successfully hides the wrenching heart your lips pull, “Stop it, Higgs. Go back to sleep.”

“You had a dream about her, didn’t you?” 

_So, he knew her, too._

Curiosity seems to shine on him, apparently, his clairvoyance doing wonders to seek out the truth of what you had been feeling. You can feel his head lift from your lap, his weight shifting from one end of the couch to the other, leaving you alone and vulnerable. It’s almost like panicking, you’re left unaware of where he was or what he was doing, you’re meager in understanding making you all the more anxious and frustrated. Your visit to Beach leaves you with more questions, unsurprisingly, and you know that Higgs will keep those answers from you. A hand startles you, warm and calm of any frightened tremors that come from you, a finger— _a thumb_ —coming to swipe the tear gently below your eye.

“Her name is Amelie Strand,” He reveals, his deep voice making a strikingly cold shiver run down the length of your spine, “You’re clever, sweetheart. You remember well that I said I was the herald of Death…and she is just _it.”_

“I don’t understand,” You murmur, rancor accenting in your heavy words, “Why…What the hell do you want from me, Higgs?”

He doesn’t answer you, yet another question arises. It makes you upset, it makes you angry, but you don’t pull away from him. 

What you finally face is the truth, as told by Amelie; Higgs is undoubtedly and painfully just as _human_ as you.

* * *

we're finally jumping into some whump and fluff?? lmao I'm not very good at this but thank you so much for reading! I love you all so much!

if you'd like to get more updates of what fic I'm writing and when I'll be updating, check out my [discord](https://discord.gg/j8QEQJ3). stay a while and chat if you'd like! 

EDIT; I completely forgot to add in a whole ass section of writing rip im so sorry


	11. Nefelibata「11」

## 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲

_What in the holy hell are you **doing?**_

Why are you cooking bacon while there’s a terrorist in your living room?

What was currently frying in hot oil on your skillet was finally the last of your rations. The end of your MRE saltines came yesterday morning, and it was very unfortunate that you didn’t have enough in the budget to order any more pizza. Although, you were glad to get rid of that pile of boxes crowded outside the front door. After finding Higgs, who had broken into your bunker, asking for you to help him after getting caught in his own void out, there were a lot of internal dilemmas that you’ve had to suffer through in the span of three ungodly days. Fragile was still in the east— _doing business and whatnot_ —so immediate contact was impossible, especially since the outage in your bunker knocked out a lot of safeguard protocols. You could still connect to the deficient network, but there was that lingering, small twinge of fear that BRIDGES might think that you were an accomplice to all this.

Hell, maybe that’s the reason why you didn’t report him; you’re just protecting yourself.

This terrorist— _idiot_ —was still bleeding out all over your couch, the wound he suffered was gnarly and almost otherworldly to mend. The treatment for void out effects on a wound was damn-near impossible to heal right now, not without proper equipment and professional medical skills. Yet, you salvaged what you could with the things you had gotten for Fragile; a chock-load of unsentimental cryptobiotes and anti-chiralium medicine. He was mostly compliant under your care, to which you were truly grateful for. However, that didn’t stop him from being infuriatingly annoying with that mouth on him, constantly badgering you with requests, making fun of your pet cryptobiotes, or just being plain Higgs in general.

Killing him wasn’t enough for you, not while he was a repatriate. So, begrudgingly, you tolerated him.

A sharp scent shocked the edges of your lungs. You snapped back from your thoughts to find a small puff of dark smoke invading your faculty of sight, realizing that you haven’t been paying attention to the bacon that was almost burnt to a crisp. Honing your focus to grip the handle of the pan, you quickly removed it from the burning stove, frowning at the half-ruined meal. _Bacon is good crispy anyway_ , you thought grimly, turning towards the living room couch where Higgs was, who had rolled over on his side groaning and pinching his nose.

“The hell, little bird?” He croaks with a gravelly voice, catching the sight of smoke fanning against the ceiling, “Are you trying to make breakfast or are you trying to burn the bunker down?”

You rolled your eyes, moving from the kitchen to crack open the front door, hoping for some kind of freshness to seep through, “I’m sorry that I woke you up by cooking bacon but I’m definitely not sorry enough to give you any.” 

Peeling the bacon from the pan and onto a plate, you set yourself down on the table and began eating. Higgs stifles what you think is a laugh and a cough, bringing his head back down to look at you with those piercing and arbitrary eyes of his, mile-long storms brewing within them. From what you understood, he was just trying to make you uncomfortable. And goddammit, it was working; that ‘ _soaring_ ’ feeling was clogging up every nook and cranny of your heart. You didn’t entertain him for long though, ripping your gaze away to focus on the stray medication container’s labels. Three pills a day, expected pain alleviation in approximately four days. If he’s not out by morning tomorrow, you’d be faced with more bullshit.

You’d be leaving the bunker to make deliveries today. Although the need for basic living essentials was immense, some small part of you didn’t want to leave Higgs by his lonesome. He’d probably ransack your home, make a mess of it like his bunker, or maybe even invite some of his Homo Demen friends for some kind of party—but then you remember that the idiot was injured, so there was not much to worry about at all. But still…knowing him…

“C’mon, darlin’,” Higgs whines while floundering a little on the couch, “Ibérico bacon is one of my favorites, you’re not gonna give me any? Not even one?”

A long sigh escaped your lips that was parted by a crispy strip, finally turning back to Higgs, “I will if you behave when I try to change your bandages.”

Oddly, there was a briefly tense pause that filled the living room. 

_“Behave?”_ He echoes, the slightest bit of his twang is coaxed with devilry, giving you some sort of unease.

Even from a distance, you could feel a thick provocation that seemed to shine through Higgs’ eyes, but you pretend that you haven’t seen a thing. You pick up a fresh roll of gauze and a wet rag from the open med-kit on the table, respiring as you come down to meet him on the couch. This routine intuitively makes him brazen with you as your hands gently stretch and pull back at the hem of his black pullover, crusted in some spots by dry blood. As he reveals his wound to you, there is barely skin-to-skin contact, yet his warmth glows in the air between his flesh and your fingertips. It makes you a bit flustered every time—seeing him a bit exposed—but you get to work anyway, wiping any excess blood.

“I’m heading out of the bunker for a bit,” You explain monotonously, splaying one hand on his abdomen to keep him still, “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Higgs gives a dramatically nasal whine, making you throw a glare at him as he moves, “Darlin’, it’s bad enough I’m cooped up here injured, but I don’t want to be alone. And I rather enjoy being coddled by—“

“—This isn’t coddling, Higgs. Don’t get used to this, I still very much hate you.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want you to leave me here, all by my lonesome,” He sardonically pouts, rolling his head over his shoulders while his hands gingerly outline the length of your arms before he shows you a wicked grin, “Plus, wouldn’t we both be getting what we want? If you really meant that, you would’ve turned me into BRIDGES the second I collapsed on this cozy little couch of yours. Perhaps you like my company after all, little bird…I certainly enjoy _yours.”_

“Do not flatter yourself.” You scold lightly, flicking him in the forehead and returning back to work. 

_You don’t_ , you tell yourself, this ‘ _soar_ ’ in your heart is all pure aggravation and unfamiliar stress.

_**Right?** _

Higgs has still not given you an answer as to what happened with you and your dream last night.

All you were able to find out that the woman in red was Amelie Strand, the president of the UCA’s fucking daughter. The same woman who Higgs managed to kidnap in Edge Knot City. There is an unmistakable surge of resentment when the acceptance settles, wanting to ask what kind of connection they have that could rope you into all of it. It seemed much more than a pernicious link, and you currently try to come to terms with that fact as you make your way across the snowy reaches of Mountain Knot City. Lockne was more than willing to help out on your budget situation and home’s technological issues, asking for you to make two deliveries within the region as compensation. She mentioned that these packages were particularly important and that you should be extra careful with the journey.

It also meant that you would have to return home later than expected, though you rather enjoyed the hours of peace and quiet that you had been deprived of for the last… _hell, month now_. There were no signs of a rolling storm, not like the one that blew in three days ago. You enjoyed every bit of it, the rare comfort of the sun brushed against your bare skin, minding the way of the wind’s direction as it blows a fervent coolness through your hair. The blinding sliver of light resting in a blade-like shape across your eyes indicates that it was already sunset—night would come soon. Your instructions took you to the Doctor, who had been debriefed about your situation through Lockne, after you vaguely told her about suffering a minor injury and you were short on supplies. Giving you two containers of oxycodone as a thanks and with your budget generously heightening, you were hardly disgruntled when you couldn’t seize the opportunity to visit the Hidden Valley Digestive Bath. 

You don’t admit that you were eager to see Higgs, you just prayed he didn’t tear through your house.

Unfortunately, it seems like the stress that had made your usual sharp self suffer a strategic toll as you realized that you were going to have to cut through BT territory. Although you knew how to handle and calm yourself around them, you were more or less frustrated with how careless you’ve gotten. Tightening the strap of your odradek sensor, you make cautious first steps into the estimated area, eyes flickering in every which way where the terrain scan reached. There was an abundance of rocks here, tall hills that could provide you with uncertainty with what came next.

Already, your sensor was rapidly flickering and whizzing over your shoulder, just barely giving you a general sense of directions of the BTs that were endlessly howling and letting out ghastly snarls. Your breath hitches a little as you find a handprint smacking into the mud a few feet beside you, leaving slow impressions along the rocks while the dread coursing through your bloodstream wisely gets you to stop moving. Thinking back, you’ve hardly had a lot of experience with BTs. Sure, you’ve almost been detected more than twice, but what the fuck are you supposed to do if you manage to get captured? You don’t have hematic grenades or have anything special in your genes that could make you sweat, piss, or shit weaponry. _Fuck this_ , you nearly hiss through your teeth, quickly slapping a hand over your mouth to prevent from doing so, _fuck all of this._

The guide on your shoulder blooms right, so you go left. Before you is the direction of two mountains, just barely over the first hill to reach the start of the incline. If you could make it up there, chances of sleeping in your bed tonight are split 50/50. If you fall and have the unfortunate privilege of getting caught by a Gazer, _you’re fucked_. You’d slide off the mountain and into the hands of countless BTs, dying a needless pathetic death for trying to help the idiot— _Higgs_ —on your couch. It couldn’t be satisfying, not when he could just come back an hour later.

_Fuck_ , you think, _I might just have to roll at this point._

And, regrettably, you have no choice but to before you’re rendered to a crouch on your knees, reacting upon a noise that absolutely does not sound hellish or anything like what a BT can make. It’s like a gunshot, rippling throughout the air in powerful vibrations that make your ears hurt, and you slam both palms against your lips to prevent that visceral yelp of surprise escaping out. You pry your gaze from the small patches of plant life that were quickly beginning to wither into brittle grey and ashen white stems, frantically searching for the source of that godforsaken noise. It was probably a MULE or something, your mind wandered, yet found nothing of the sort as you remembered that their camps were much farther, from this region, not so close to the city.

Peering across the slopes of hills and tips of jagged rocks, what you found— _or **who** you found_—was someone with the ambiguity and mystery of Higgs before you knew him. Military gear, complete with a helmet that didn’t narrow down any approximations form you, at all. They didn’t wield a taser pole like any of the other MULEs, and you struck with a fear that what they had instead was a gun. What was most peculiarly odd about them, as the figure stood a few yards from you and overlooked the terrain upon a boulder, was their stench. It was _fougére_ , a bitter earthy scent that was far more repugnant than this present wilderness. Instinctively, you pulled your hands higher to your nose in an attempt to block such a scent out, your eyes never leaving them.

They scanned the area, fully equipped with a green odradek and a BB pod. Plugged in, you could see the fetus shift and float within their artificial womb machine. This is the first time you’ve ever seen a BB unit, truthfully, you haven’t even seen Higgs’. Their tiny hands pressed firmly against the inside of the glass, a prominent amber color pervading throughout the inside of the carrier’s grey cloak. This person, however, had not left your interest. They reached an arm up, revealing a bare arm to your sight as you tried to make yourself small and invisible, fearing what may transpire if they saw you. Morbid curiosity seized you strongly as you found that their skin was horribly scarred and burnt, like the aftermath of a terrible fire. 

_You immediately wonder if this was a survivor of the two cities Higgs destroyed._

Silencing any coherent thought as their hand pried open, they began releasing some form of golden sparkling powder; a crushed form of chiral crystals, you thought. It wasn’t carried or scattered in the passing wind, like some kind of pollen. The breath you were holding suddenly became your top priority, not wanting to inhale such an unprecedented kind of exposure. And then, you heard them; _the BTs_. They grew louder, angrier even, the length of their otherworldly moans whizzing past your rigid and still form. It was blatantly obvious that they were somehow attracted to the chiral powder, and for some reason this lunatic was beginning to make the BTs come to them. You wondered if they had DOOMs, thinking that their level wasn’t high enough to control BTs, not like Higgs. 

_Oh_ , you think, _they’re clearing the area_. Logically, it made sense; cluster all BTs to one place and just sneak past them with much less difficulty. Your odradek begins to bloom less now, only closing twice while turning slowly towards the estimated group. You don’t know how long you were watching them, but something must’ve given your position away or done something stupid without you knowing; they looked straight at you. 

_Oh, shit._

Uprooting yourself from your spot, you feel ensnared by a foreboding caution that sends chills down your back, skin easily overwhelmed by gooseflesh. You raise a slow hand, lips pried apart with an apprehensive breath. You wanted to make a slapstick greeting, but instead, you decided to bolt away. Fuck no, the BTs would hear you and you don’t want to repeat the same mistake you’ve made last time—hell, that’s what had gotten you into this situation. You don’t take any chances by turning around as you finally reach the climax of the final hill, the relieving cold poured over your boots as you finally make it to the fringes of snow. 

_You should’ve taken your reverse trike today,_ you think bitterly as your pace is beginning to slow, nearly slipping and falling on your ass before scrambling forward on wobbling legs. There is a sound behind you, what you instantly fear is the likes of a BT, one of them must’ve not been far enough to not hear you. Your knees fail to buckle properly, sending your hands outstretched and forward prepared to catch yourself if you fall. Woefully, you weren’t able to push yourself back up, finding your hands sinking and pulling you into a wave of tar that climbs up the snow and mountain.

_Holy shit!_

You’re almost completely in full-blown panic, hauling your arms back to rip yourself away from the tar that managed to swallow your gloves. Instantly, the biting cold unnerves you, fighting to thrash away from the figure and the BTs simultaneously. You’ll be damned if you die in a void out, _fuck that, fuck this, fuck **them** , **fuck everything!**_ You kick yourself forward and almost lose your precious chiral boot in the process, throwing a hard glare over your shoulder as you find the figure beginning to make small chiral jumps toward your direction. However, sobriety fuels you enough to gather what you can of your surroundings. There are boulders being washed over by tar, just barely beyond your reach for you to grab on and cling for dear life. 

There is another noise— _a shout_ —this lunatic is yelling at you. You’re suddenly kicked into overdrive, as if the adrenaline pumping throughout your slick black and sweating body wasn’t doing enough. Your body is almost swept by a wave, but you ride along the motions for a split second to gain proximity between you and a boulder. You grip the hard, cold mass, nails chipping yet digging into the surface at the same time. Terrifyingly, there is the scent of blood that sweetly wafts up your nose, in stark contrast with the bitter fern that this figure pervaded the air with as they finally make a chiral jump close to you.

_Don’t let go of the fucking rock_ , you tell yourself through the raging sea of tar. 

Their helmet was incomprehensible, which was a bit humorous since with Higgs’ mask, you could at least tell what he was going for. Whilst clinging and getting pulled down by BTs in this ripple of tar, you finally act on impulse and spit into their face. Your saliva hits the right goggle of their eye and immediately, you’re awash with a sense of relief and satisfaction, then doused by a final heavy wave. You don’t let go of the rock, as you promised. By now, the crawl of tar had finally stopped reaching for the height of the mountain, leaving you slipping and free from the threat of BTs and the stranger that is sent rolling back to the flatter terrain, far from you. A pain settles on your lower abdomen, slowly coming to realize that something inside you had just ripped open. 

As the avalanche of tar subsides, you fall to your knees to pick up your fallen cargo wheezing. Steeling yourself from the dull pain settling across your abdomen, you’re hardly surprised about vomiting dark bile and scrubbing your overwhelmed tears away from your raw and filthy face. There is silence, but at the same time, all you can hear is a terrible roar in the air.

Yet again, more questions with no answers. More pain with no wounds.

You barely make it three steps inside the terminal before your shoulder crashes against the wall, unclasping the buckles of your odradek and power skeleton, somehow finding it amusing that you should’ve picked your speed one. Your discarded and heavily damaged cargo falls to your feet and your presence barely registers within the sensor ring, only giving a prolonged mechanical echo that has an even worse excruciating effect on your ears. This humdrum noise brings another wave of nausea and you sink your teeth into a clenched fist to prevent puking again. You slam your eyes shut and hunch over, your trembling fingers dangling, scraping, and weakly gripping at the ends of your cargo to at least try and calm yourself. What you have is damaged, it’s better than nothing, but it isn’t enough. You’ll just get more tomorrow, you’ll go back to Lockne some other time, you’ll go back to the Doctor again soon.

You’ll let Higgs stay again for another night.

“Fuck…” You cough into your fist, hacking out a few more blotches of bile and tar before dragging your cargo to the door, throwing it open.

You haul your cargo inside, slamming the door shut behind you as you entered and sank down against the steel walls. It’s quiet, blank, and terribly soothing—it’s finally peaceful, your labored breathing echoes throughout the house, but it is significantly better than the terminal’s noise. Intuitively, you wonder if Higgs is asleep or straining your budget again while gorging on another pizza. You crane your neck up against the door, garish lights from the bulb becomes hardly a welcoming comfort.

However, as you squinted, even with the hair falling over your eyes, you can see it; dad’s gun.

“Think of it as another thank you present,” Higgs’ voice comes to your senses first than the looming shadow that blocks out the light above, and there is no hope within you to shy away from him, “Just grab my hand instead of fiddling around. Are you that scared to touch me, sweetheart?”

Mockery, that’s what his voice always is, even now as he offers a hand to help you. A hard wave of convulsion shocks your arm when your hand grips his, though the pain subsides as Higgs is quick to yank you right out of the agony and into his arms. You don’t see how this is any different, and you don’t remember reaching out to him for help— _hell, no_. But as the scent of a gentler tuberose fills your head, you don’t want to let go. _Get away from him_ , your body screams as it stilly lay against him, _get the hell away from him. He’s dangerous, he’s going to get you killed, he’s nothing but a murderer, he’s everything you should ever fear in this life, he’s worse than the—_

“I ordered pizza.” His caustic laugh rings throughout your fuzzed head, tired eyes blearily imagining the silhouettes of your parents behind his body, where he could just…lead you away from them.

You don’t know how long you two stand there, but as soon as your body has been resilient and firm against the fatigue, you rip away from him, you press onward and act like nothing ever happened, “You better have added bacon on it, or I swear, I’m killing you again.”

He added bacon, thank god. The meal is pleasantly silent, nothing but the sound of a light occasional hum coming from Higgs whenever he finished a slice. He doesn’t badger you with questions as to why you came back looking filthy and covered in tar, it’s strange how your lack of understanding with him is a thing that perturbs you. He indulges in whatever he pleases, but he doesn’t with you. _Why?_ Because you _amuse_ him? That would be a terrible reason, maybe he wants something from you, after all. Maybe he’s just being like this so that when BRIDGES finally backs him into a corner, he’d have a way to get out; _AKA you_. You only ate half of one slice before turning in for the night, mumbling an incoherent goodnight to Higgs. You don’t bother to try and pick him apart anymore, you’re done. 

His question comes back echoing in your mind again; asking if everything was becoming different, how would you feel if he stayed the same?

You don’t know. You don’t care.

He’s just…the way he is.

Even at the highest pressure and temperature of the shower, you can still feel the cold oily limbs climb up the length of your arms and legs. They grip and scratch, mangled deformities soaking and gripping you by what was once human or had life in them. You didn’t feel this way after you got caught up with Higgs’ BTs, _no_ , that time they weren’t trying to hurt you—only trying to get you to stay still. This time, whoever the fuck that was under the helmet and goggles, they were fully intent on killing you. The _shoot first, ask questions later,_ kind of person, you assume. Maybe a silent killer type, you don’t know, fuck; all you know is that they are extraordinarily different. The fougére stench makes you tremble under the spray of water, shaking you enough to cut your bath early.

With Lockne’s help, you manage to fix some of your chiral essentials. There are a few delivery requests for you that could be handled in the next two days, some messages from Doctor Heartman concerning the existence of EE’s—which you reluctantly ignore—and sadly, there was no message from Fragile. You wondered how she was doing these days, if she was still alive. There was still no telling if she was in the west or the east anymore, and if she were in the west, you don’t know if you could bring yourself to tell her that Higgs has been staying here. What would she say? _Fuck you, I trusted you?_ Whatever’s coming to you, after putting it off for so long, maybe you deserve it.

The fern in your nose has gone, but the memory of greenery stayed. It followed and loomed over you like a shadow, and only now were you beginning to acknowledge it. You’ve reached under your bed and had gotten the family photo album that you were initially supposed to burn, hell, you were looking forward to burning down the bunker, too. Yet, you peeled back the worn edges with sad delicacy, and the polaroids taped onto the yellowing pages gave you a sense of old nostalgia and maybe some longing grief. Whatever it was that burnt in your chest, you missed it, that displacement or hollowed out space in your heart that once held innocence and happiness. But then you remembered that it was outlined with obedience, compliancy, submission; _a bullet_. You hardly think back on your childhood, as it was mostly filled with education from teachers or your parents. Eyes flicker from one face to the other, some are with you and some are not—Lockne, Mama, your dad, your mom, or your teachers—a sense of dread came from all of them. 

However, a particular memory, one that often made you cry from how happy it was, flooded back into your mind. It came with the floral aroma and a pillar of sun beaming into your eyes, warm and crisp. At age eleven, your dad walked you back home from a tutoring session in Mountain Knot City. You could still remember the smell of wood chips and gasoline near the tunnel of the bunker, your dad’s workplace, prepping the animals he had caught for the porters who came on orders. Your mother was watering her carnations that you recently had to destroy, smiling upon your return home, that saccharine sweetness embracing you. And you were _stupid_ enough to hug her back. 

Once you were all inside, your dad made dinner while dancing with his wife in the kitchen. A pot roast, seasoned with too much thyme, you remember. The scent of tuberose candles odorizing the living room, lit at the window sill, the same smell that had become nothing but an omen to you now. They ate fast, which was an odd thing to notice as a child, but when they smiled at you—somehow you realized that you were the one who realized you weren’t being blinded by a wonderful bliss. 

Your mother was pregnant. 

_“Little bird,”_ Higgs’ voice ripped you from your thoughts, turning to look at him as he stood by your door, one hand on the doorknob and the other on his wound, “You’re soaring pretty high there.”

“What do you want?” You had no tolerance for the small hint of malice seeping into his voice, which shouldn’t surprise you—he may be amused by destruction.

Tuts of amusement, of her current destruction upon herself, rang throughout her ears, “What’s up with you? You’ve never actually made an attempt to listen to what I say before.”

“I want to sleep, Higgs,” You sighed, sitting on the edge of your bed, “The faster you tell me, the faster—“

_“—I’m concerned about you.”_

You didn’t expect to laugh so loud, especially at his face. Although you soaked in every pinch and crease of his expression; partial amusement, partial offense, and partial confusion, you still have no idea whatever on God’s green—and black—earth made him say such a thing. Maybe, he truly was upset, envious that this sort of reaction didn’t come out of you from him when you two first met. He was still left in the dark about whatever— _or whoever_ —you faced today, and you planned to keep him there. Maybe he wants for you to tell him, expose you and dig his way into your history, root and stem, and use it against you. 

You shift quickly to tuck your knees into your chest when he makes a chiral jump, finding him sitting on the other edge of your bed. He wouldn’t have wanted you to ask why he’d be walking toward you with no answer, but you were rather incensed now, narrowing tired and deprived eyes at him. It seemed like he doesn’t care about your reaction; he’s not looking at you, and you’re still not convinced.

“Why?” You’re surprised by your own tone; gruff and damn near hostile like when you first met him, but then again, why would such a thing change in the first place?

Higgs’ weight drops on the bed, the mattress softly bouncing under you with tiny shrill creaks from the boxspring below, and you’re truly left speechless. _This idiot_ , you think, the dim light of the hallway illuminating the edges of his face. The bridge of his nose and curve of his lips give a hazy golden glow, all of him is just shadows and angles of obscurity. Suddenly, you’re enthralled for an answer. His head elevates, the back of his neck arched to look at you with those eyes. _Holy hell_ , even in the dark, you can still see the storm brewing.

You don’t repeat yourself, afraid of what your voice might give away, and you know that he heard you.

You just don’t know if he’ll tell you the truth.

“I don’t need to answer that. You know it already,” Higgs finally utters, straightening his neck again, staring back at the ceiling, “I don’t like repeating myself. You’re clever enough. You’re fun. Why stop the fun? Why stop everything…when the story’s just getting good?”

Something yanks you down to the bed, your cheek smashing upon your bundled blanket and you sputter upon impact. Higgs’ arm snakes back towards his head— _you didn’t even notice it move_ —and for some ungodly reason, you don’t get up. You don’t push him away. Drowsiness has moved in tides over your shoulders, rushing up the column of your neck that prevents you from telling him to get out, and finally swims up into your head in a rippling daze. It’s kinder than the waves of tar you suffered through today, and certainly much more welcoming. 

“Fun can be quiet.” 

You wonder if he truly means that. You wonder if quiet can finally be peace.

“Little bird,” Higgs’ gentle voice disrupts you from sleep, “I just noticed. All odd numbers have an ‘ _e_ ’ in them.”

“Higgs, it’s _three am.”_

_“T-h-r-e-e—“_

**“—Go to sleep!”**

* * *

ahhhh--we'e finally getting some warmth between these two after being so cold to each other! a big, BIG thank you to everyone who has decided to join my [discord](https://discord.gg/j8QEQJ3) , where there's updates on the fics I'm writing and a ton of fun tomfoolery. if you'd like, feel free to join and send some delicious memes or talk to me! 

ALSO, @desertvvitch [ this absolutely amazing writer ] has a really wonderful story that got me super invested and they put so much hard work into it and they're just--aggh!

Their story is called Golden Maw; Silver Strand, it's beautifully written and I definitely recommend checking it out. 

\- earned 50 like(s) from senokai

much love! and thank you to those who have left a kudos, heart, or a comment! it means so much to me!


	12. Alexithymia「12」

## 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

_**Goddamn** , you didn’t see this coming._

The third morning of Higgs’ stay at your bunker began the very first mutual agreement between you two; understanding and putting up with each other’s shit. Although you’re still stressed about his obligation to continue keeping answers from you, it doesn’t stop you from any physical retaliation. Under your care, where he certainly couldn’t get anywhere else or just preferred not to get from his own camp back in Edge Knot City, it was easy for him to accept that there’ll be no more time for bullshit. You’re able to tolerate his verbal whines about it, but you swore you’d leave him out in the snow to die. The prominent wound on his side was finally beginning to restore back in a flushed red and pink color, his flesh wasn’t as singed with black streaks from the presence of BTs as much. Though, you’re sure that the BTs weren’t really much of a bother, being that he could control the damned things. 

You still don’t tell him about the stranger, you can face whoever it was alone. If you let Higgs ‘ _handle_ ’ it for you, then it’ll just end up with you making up for that deed— _an eye for an eye_ , kind of deal. The chiral powder that could attract BTs, you’ve never seen that kind of method for avoiding them before, and you wonder if it was some kind of black-market stuff. Even if Higgs controls BTs, you don’t think he knows of such a procedure anyway. The Chiral Artist by South Knot, it could be a new prototype technique that she was testing out, but their user had DOOMs, they had a _BB unit._ It was an endless swarming cycle of questions and theories with no promising leads, but you try not to let the strain become emphasized in your face. 

When you awaken in Higgs’ arms, you’re hardly surprised. Flustered, _yes_. Ashamed, _a little bit_. But it wasn’t an unwanted entanglement; it was a real ethereal warmth that was an escape from those cold bitter memories, a break from the cluster of thoughts. Fatuity in his arms is what helped get you through the night without tears, free from remembering your mother’s announcement that brought your happiness then and dread now. Your hold on him was close while his was less so, but you can’t find it in yourself to be disheartened. This was the way he is, you supposed, and you know that he’ll continue to be as such for as long as you don’t report him to BRIDGES. That ‘ _soar_ ’ racing through your heart made the curled arm around his waist stiffen, a strong unconventional course acting through you as you remember that you should do the right thing and turn him in. 

When he pulls you closer, it makes you contrite when you do so, too. 

You’re in this now, there’s no going back.

A package of bacon in bulk was delivered to your bunker, so that was a good start to your morning. It was a gift from Lockne, given by a porter who you’ve had to give your apologies to after they found that the terminal still wasn’t working properly. Higgs was certainly cheerful about it, either oblivious or neglectful towards the technical issues while you fried it on the skillet, determined not to burn breakfast this time. While you stationed yourself at the stove, one hand gripping the handle and the other pressed flat against the counter’s edge with Higgs sitting next to it. There is still some fatigue and bile crawling along the walls of your throat, the tiredness that keeps afloat in the abyssal pool in your head keeps you from swaying with the tides. You don’t want to worry him; not wanting to show any sign of weakness. You instead want to prove to him that he hasn’t gotten you beat yet, and you’re lucky his focus isn’t kept on you and rather on your pet cryptobiotes that runs along the length of his wiggling fingers.

What will you do on the fourth morning? Will he be better on his own by then? You were distressed to realize that you had been thinking about the future more than you ever had in your life, as all that had ever mattered before you met Higgs was the present—how you were going to endure today. Survival was everything to you, not morale and the basis of living for other people. The world was a fucked up place, that’s all that you’ve ever known, and it somewhat made you frightened that you were so concerned with how you were going to deal with it for someone else. You turned over the raw pink sides of the cut on the pan, wincing quietly as you felt the hot sprinkle of oil that had burst from the skillet and onto the back of your hand. It may not have been a matter worth worrying over, but the short hiss behind your bared teeth and the sight of your body becoming rigid and actually flinching back at something fascinated Higgs. From your indistinct periphery, he removed himself from the counter and snuck up from behind you. The familiar impression of his sizable arms slithered and curled around your waist, and you bite your tongue to withhold a groan.

_Good lord_ , you deadpan.

“Need an extra set of hands?” An ardent cloud hits the back of your ear, yet you’re hardly disturbed, shifting your head farther to the side from his lips that you could tell was sinfully stretched.

“I need space,” Your orotund disapproval makes him grumble, where you were grateful that he actually complied and removed himself, turning his attention back to Horns who crawled over his palm, “I can’t have you glued to my side the whole day. I feel like I can’t breathe around you.”

“I do tend to take people’s breath away.” Higgs gives a hard snort as he soaks in your unamused expression— _he really was an idiot, wasn’t he?_

You usher him to the table and indulge in the light meal. You were free of making deliveries today, which meant mild leisure. You were determined not to insert Higgs into your schedule, although you don’t miss that tiny spark in his eyes when you finally reveal that you were going to be spending the day in the bunker. Thoughts of repeating intimacy were lost on you, unlike Higgs who constantly offered playful banters with you to get the ball going and rolling. However, as you paid more attention to the succulents at the window sill, watering them with a small spray bottle and enjoying the sun passing through the linen window curtains, it was finally safe to say that today was peaceful. A notification had arrived an hour after breakfast from Lockne, who informed you that your bunker’s essentials would return back to normal by tomorrow morning. You couldn’t be more relieved. 

What you didn’t anticipate, however, was how soon Higgs wanted to ruin that peace.

“Little bird, I’ve got some business to take care of at my bunker up by Middle Knot,” His voice pulls you from your thoughts, interrupting you from continuing to check the logs, “S’ pretty important.”

You purse your lips, quirking a brow up at him as he slouches further back into the sofa under your dubious gaze, “You’re gonna go all the way back up to Middle Knot? With that wound?”

“Exactly,” He croons, earning a jaundice glare, “And you’re gonna accompany me.”

“Do I have to?”

Higgs doesn’t relent on giving one day without chaos, and honestly, it bothered you that it was becoming an adjustable daily routine, “Unless you’d like to stay here all by yourself? Maybe that’ll do; _revenge_. You did leave here yesterday and had so much fun without me.”

And then, that cursed feeling hits you again. The stranger, whoever that was, overrides you with a sense of panic and misery. A terrible revolt coils inside the pit of your stomach, pouring throughout the extent of your legs and down to your feet like long, slow worms. You fear that you might sink into the floor as it collects under you. You’ll try kicking, screaming, crying, and even biting to not get swallowed up by their power, while yours is undeniably inferior. One life cannot defeat the forces of the dead. Your face creases as much as your strength would allow, the turmoil settling when all you can focus on is Higgs’ smile. His face, the outlines of his skin that is just stretched and pulled with mockery is something you’ve come to hate, but that forced smile is all you can muster to fight against his countenance. He doesn’t notice your disturbance or he’s merely watching from the side, but either way, all he does is stare.

“I didn’t have fun,” You’re eternally grateful that your voice remains undaunted, but you’re worried that your face expresses otherwise, “I— _fuck_ —I got caught in a tar pool, Higgs. The BTs almost got me!”

“Which is all the more reason why I should come along with you. I’ll keep them at bay.”

_Motherfucker._

The mutual agreement between you two was fresh and young, so of course, there were minor difficulties and complaints between the both of you before you even made it out of the bunker. You had agreed to take Higgs back to his place in Middle Knot, yet unyielding towards any of his unseemly bullshit demands that he had—saying that you’d strictly do this _your_ way. Higgs seemed to like that, oddly enough; you being in command, in charge of keeping an eye on him. Surely, he’d take advantage or challenge your watchful eye on him—get you flustered and let your guard down so that he could take the reins—though you were already pretty much prepared for anything. A good press into his wound or a sharp knife to the chest would stop him from getting any funny ideas, but it didn’t cancel out blurting out alternative traveling methods, unfortunately. 

Initially, you wanted to travel by reverse trike all the way to the bunker, but he defied you, saying that you two should retrieve a proper vehicle at the Distribution Center South of Lake Knot City. Although you were rightfully concerned about if the bike ran out of gas, you decided to remain resilient and stubborn. You explained that it wouldn’t be safe hanging around BRIDGES any more than you needed, where Higgs said that BRIDGES wouldn’t consider them heading to somewhere like the Distribution Center and rather the city. And there ensued a thirty minute long bickering session. Honestly, you don’t know how you managed to put up with him these past few days, relentless banter and countless mockery thrown back and forward—and truthfully, you weren’t tired of it at all.

_Yet_ , you assured yourself, _you weren’t tired of it yet._

In the end, you decided that you two went with your idea, prioritizing on safety than convenience—where the only insufferable damage was Higgs’ complaining when you said you’d drive. The two of you managed to glide down the snow-clad slope of the mountain, mutually clinging onto each other tightly when the slick of the incline gave you a small scare by a nearly fatal slip. The transition from the bitter afternoon cold turned exceptionally warmer, kinder breezes carried through the tresses of your hair that was neatly pulled back. It saved Higgs who refuted that he’d rather not get whipped in the face—to which you remarked that he better keep his face behind your shoulder, or else you’d draw another pair of eyebrows on him. That shut him up fast. 

A part of yourself asked what you were doing—a common train of thought, though you haven’t explored it enough to truly get a straight answer—riding out in the middle of America with the man who was trying to ruin it. You haven’t yet gotten the grueling details about how he would do such a thing. As a semi-decent human being, you don’t want to know, not wanting to hear such ways to wipe out the rest of the human population— _man slaughter, arson, plagues_. Yet the morbid curiosity you had was fairly stronger, wondering if you should know just so that you could prepare yourself for whatever may come. You were reminded that you were only by his side as amusement, a little bird on his shoulder, a parrot; _a pet._

You couldn’t hate things you didn’t fully know or understand. Maybe that’s why you’re here, with him.

The two of you intended to head to the Waystation North of Mountain Knot City, seeking out rest there just in case the two of you wouldn’t make it to the headwaters by sunset. It was the fastest way from around Mountain Knot to Middle Knot, and the only danger that would be worth worrying over would be the BT territory, though Higgs assured you that even that wasn’t fretting over either. You didn’t trust him, but you believed his words. You still haven’t figured out what you were doing in a place like this; why Higgs would’ve wanted you to come with him in the first place. Remembering that you’ve assured him once that if he killed you quickly, he wouldn’t have to worry about another damned thing for the rest of his life. Yet, any consistent thought had vanished as you finally saw the Waystation. Higgs rose his chin from atop your shoulder, craning his neck high with his eyes studying the clouds. It was an hourly routine; while you concentrated on the path ahead, the idiot hugging your back would check the weather. 

“We should keep going.” His voice is so close and orotund against the wind, both simultaneously beating on the shell of your ear, and yet you think you’ve heard him wrong. 

“The Waystation is right there,” You retort, tilting your cheek towards him a little, “We can make it.”

_“Darlin’—“_

A sound rips louder throughout the vast sky, greater than the roar of your engine that sputters from the shaking of your hands. You’ve reacted to the sudden noise in a violent jolt, almost losing complete control of the vehicle and sent the two of you crashing and burning, had it not been for Higgs’ better reflexes—shooting himself forward to grip the handles. Your hands tightened vicely under his, feeling that pain digging into the back of your knuckles, the strength that this man was actually capable of. The bike regains balance rather quickly, but the two of you are much more concerned with whatever the noise had come from. You had been the one to look; to see the familiar blinking helmet of that _**godforsaken** stranger_ charging at your trike with theirs, an _M32_ in one hand.

_Okay, so they were intent on killing you._ That was one questioned answered out of fucking billions, _goodie!_

Your speed is akin to lightning that hits the earth, maneuvering yourself from Higgs’ lap to slide in from behind him, nearly falling off the trike entirely. All it takes for Higgs is one second for his eyes to find yours, where there is just a small sliver of mutual agreement; you would leave all control to him. 

“Step on it!” Your command is loud and clear, and for the first time, Higgs doesn’t need to be told twice.

The reverse trike gives an awfully loud tear, combined with the shrill scraping of gravel against rubber tires it is terribly excruciating for both you and Higgs. For some goddamn reason, you had an obligation to protect this idiot. If he dies— _well, good riddance_ —then you’ll die. You can’t handle yourself against a fucking grenade launcher and a sufferer, you wouldn’t last a second, especially with your stupid mouth. Another sound—closer this time—bursts near the back-wheels of the trike, a terrible tremor follows and now, you don’t give a fuck if you’re hurting him with your grip. Pain was better than being dead.

“I’m gonna take a _wild_ _guess_ and assume that this is the reason why you came home late last night?” Shockingly, even during a situation of life and death, Higgs’ voice is never without cynicism, “And here I thought you were just cheating on me.”

_“Higgs!”_ You’re interrupted by yet another explosion detonation, detritus and dirt spraying against your cheeks—blatantly shielding yourself away into Higgs’ back, “Now’s not the time! We need to get to the Waystation! Fast!”

You wonder how the hell this person managed to find you. Maybe they must’ve known that you lived somewhere around Mountain Knot after trying to climb the peak that bordered the region, maybe spitting in their goggles wasn’t enough to get them off your back, after all. Higgs went through a particularly rough patch of terrain, drifting sideways to round and avoid a steep pile of jagged rocks, and you internally now realized that Higgs was probably a worse driver than you. The Waystation is so close, _so damn close_. The only thing that keeps the two of you from feeling that blissful sense of freedom is the fact that Higgs is swerving to avoid it, causing your chest to rouse with incredulous anger.

“Higgs!” The unrelenting hand that you have pressed against his chest tightens, trying to gain his unyielding attention whilst burrowing your face deeper into the middle of his back, “Are you listening to me!? Turn to the Waystation—“

“Little bird, I don’t know if you can see it right now; but this fuck’s got a grenade launcher,” And then, as if they heard you, they fired another round into the ground on your left, leaving you yelping, “The Waystation is an easy target. And plus, I’m sure your stubborn conscience doesn’t want blood on your hands.”

“Not when they’re trying to kill us first, dumbass!” You shoot back, sliding your arms to his sides before patting him down, “Do something! Do you have anything!? A gun!?”

“No.”

He almost sounds ashamed. _Almost_.

And immediately, you’re completely filled to the brim with exasperated rage, “What kind of a terrorist doesn’t have a gun!?”

“The kind that’s currently injured and busy concentrating on driving!”

Another explosion rocks the two of you, and your teeth slam hard on the bottom of your lip to prevent you from letting out that terrible shriek. You look back to find the stranger reloading their firearm, and try to ransack through your swarming thoughts for any kind of advantage on this field. Your father’s hunting knowledge is useless without an appropriate weapon, there are no hills that could provide substantial cover, and you were certainly not going to abandon the vehicle— _you just got it!_ As you retreat into Higgs’ body, you can feel that fucking stretch across his mouth while your hands rove throughout his backside, and you can’t bring yourself to look away or at him. You’d have no ground to stand on, and you’ll be damned if you let either of these fuckers get the best of you.

“Just who is this guy?”

“How the hell should I fucking know!?” You snap, bending your weight with Higgs’ as you both drift horizontally along the incline of a hill. 

You immediately feel that cynical growl leave his throat, sending colder shivers up the extent of your back, “ _You’re_ the one he chased after yesterday!”

**“You’re the mass murderer here!”**

Before either of you continue this poorly-timed bickering session, your own breath becomes painful, like a hard shock to the lungs. Higgs lowers himself and thrusts his elbows up with the top portion of the trike—where you had only realized when your heart dropped into your stomach that the two of you are soaring over a deep, abyssal fault line. The unkempt mane of your hair wafts upwards with the ends of your gear, your very body coming to rise from the leather of the seat like the wind itself was carrying you—the only thing that keeps you from being swept away is your arms and your chin circling around Higgs’ shoulders. The two split portions of the Earth make all of your coherent thoughts go up in smoke, and the only thing that manages to escape your red, torn lips is Higgs’ name, choking out against his ear in a barely audible plea.

There was a sound, and then an explosion. You don’t know what the first one was, but it sounds incredibly familiar to you. You feel as if you’re flying, swept up by that very wind that managed to rip you from Higgs who acted as your anchor, the one thing that kept you falling from grace. The air is insufferably warm, leaving a bitter effect upon your tongue that tastes ozone, and you’re too distressed to find out what was causing it. There’s a comforting pressure that holds you before your body rolls across a rocky surface. It’s saving you from lethal jabs and bone-breaking bluntness. It saves you and reminds you of safety— _reassurance_ , and you don’t want to let go no matter what.

There’s a small caress traced above your brow, then the underside of your chin— _gentle and light._

_“You’re okay.”_

Then, it becomes harsh. Ice, dirt and grass, you can smell them all so clearly, feel them under your clammy palms that are slick by a warm wetness. Slowly but surely, hyper-awareness kicks in after the adrenaline rush subsides throughout your bloodstream, just barely clinging onto any form of consciousness. It’s high on the bicep of your arms and underneath the surface of your thigh. Curiosity leverages your eyes to finally open, and you’re struck with immense fear—not like the same kind of horror that you feel about the Beach.

Red on white. _Blood on snow_. A gunshot wound— _ **no**_ —scrapes and cuts, all minor. But the pain is excruciating, it can’t erase what you already have recognized, and a short wail flees from your labored breath. What the hell just happened? Did Higgs lose control of the bike? Did he do this? _Son of a bitch_. Your faculty of sight is hazy and incredibly incomprehensible. There is movement all around you, yet it all seems so still as the air is so quiet. A crackle, a violent pop, those sounds you hear in the distance come with the silhouette of someone bending down to pick up something… _no, another person._ It’s dark, they’re dark— _clad in a dark cloak._

“Higgs?” Your call seemed to hit the nail on the head; he turned to you, though his glance was bloody-minded and minimal.

“Just a second.” That abrasive kind of voice again, it’s been so long since you’ve heard it. 

You understand now that he made a chiral jump to save himself—to save you. He done what he could out of shape, you couldn’t blame him for not saving you unscathed, but _fucking really?_ What the hell is he doing? Senses begin to slowly recollect with incredible effort, where your bleeding hands cradle the back of your head, wincing tightly at the sting upon contact. Wounds were fucking everywhere, and Higgs seemed to have suffered none from this. As you turned to him, you wonder if that was really true; _why did he look so angry?_

Higgs fisted his hand into the stranger’s collar of their olive-green cloak, using that well-known vice grip of his to yank them closer. You stilled at such force Higgs had used, and found yourself unable to look away as the stranger did not fight to get away. Whether they were equally-matched or would chase each other to the ends of the Earth; it was almost like they’re fated to kill each other. You can’t make out anything from this stranger, they’re not reactive at all with their body—only accepting the punches that Higgs begins to throw across the jawline of their helmet.

A strained wince violently throttles and elicits a harsh cough; the knuckles on this idiot— _Higgs’_ —hand was beginning to bleed.

“Well, look at you,” You find your periphery to be clearer now; Higgs has his eyes set on the exposed scarred neckline of the stranger, “You’re one ugly sonuvabitch. Caught fire, did ya?”

Your stomach churns. You don’t like this; you don’t want to see this kind of thing from Higgs. His brash laughter rang throughout your ears and it compelled you to stand up. With wobbly, clicking knees you were able to push yourself up from the dirt, bloody and all. You looked on disbelievingly as Higgs let his balled up hand in their clothes go, yet his hand stretched and clawed in the space between. The stranger rose up, and up. High in the air where you struggled to maintain eye contact as the sun shone from behind, rendering them into nothing but a shadow, almost like a BT. _Someone dead._

“Roasted…like a piece of bacon,” Higgs wheezes lightly, shaking his head while he crossed the short space to glower upon the turned over vehicle, “Though…I gotta say, you look a little… _undercooked.”_

Fear stalls your heart, and you immediately lurch and stumble forward closer to Higgs. The effort leaves you breathless and nearly broken, just barely within his reach, the entirety of your hand grasping the ends of his fingers. You dare to look up at him, as if to beg God not to throw this stranger into the sun.

“We’re done here.” Higgs soaks in the taut and low, commanding him to stand down.

And he grins with what you almost perceive is a mouth-full of fangs, “We’re just getting to the good part, darlin’. Who are you to defy—“

“—You said it yourself, you stupid fucking particle of god,” Your anger speaks volumes as Higgs’ habitually caustic countenance softens, “I don’t want blood on my stubborn conscious.”

When Higgs’ hand envelops the entirety of yours with a sense of great reluctance, you crane your head high in some form of concern for the stranger. However, upon gazing directly into the cloud-covered sun, you found that they weren’t there anymore. They must’ve chiral jumped— _they’re alive_. And you try to feel confident in the fact that they might be scared enough not to chase you anymore.

“You’re in command here,” Higgs’ sedate voice announces as he moves over to yank up the bike, “Let’s keep moving.”

_What…what have you done?_

You were guilty enough to let yourselves travel during the night. There was no conversation between the two of you, no space to be free from the air of tension as the two of you rode past the crater of what was once Middle Knot. Higgs was in control of the reverse trike now; you’d be giving him another reason to be jaundice with you if you didn’t let him drive. This time, you kept your arms just barely hung around his hips, where just beneath the tip of your index and thumb, you could feel the rigid and tense sinews of his body—muscles that were yearning for sleep. You hardly ever traveled during the night— _catching up on sleep after deliveries and whatnot_ —your attention fully immersed within the blanket of darkness over the sky and freckled with stars. This was the only distraction, an escape from the dilemma of choosing between being human and yourself.

_It’s so quiet,_ you think.

The bunker registers your credentials even while you opted to wait outside with the trike. Higgs went down to his bunker by himself, leaving you with no explanation as to why you both made this hellish trip in the first place. There was no real verdict yet whether or not if he would stay here and finally get out of your hair—after denying him of killing someone and with how well his wound seemed to be healing so quickly, he might just up and leave. You balance on whether or not he’ll vocalize his judgement, or if he’ll just leave you with yet more unanswered questions. The more you thought of these vacillating questions and scenarios, the further your aimless pacing takes you from the bunker’s tunnel. Your eyes never leave the outlines of what you think is the Polaris star, a feat of the night that you remembered learning about during your father’s hunting lessons on migratory birds.

Dauntless memories come easier to you now, swept up easily by the waves of tensity and stress. You don’t bother to ignore it; remembering the faces of your parents was always incredibly difficult. From what you understood, they were scared for their whole life. They wanted to know everything about the world that was no longer safe for them just so they could avoid or outsmart it—like adaptation or evolution. The environment around them was always an invisible bother to you, distracting you with their smiles, lessons, and gifts. Yet, ironically, the biggest gift of all— _your mother’s pregnancy announcement_ —had been the one single thing to realize just how fucked up everything truly was. They shot you when you learned the truth, coddled you to the point of suffocation and actual realization that you knew nothing of the world, and abandoned you.

No one in your life has gotten close to you as much as they had, and you wondered if you were either scared of losing that kind of connection or reality making you see just what…or _who_ Higgs really was.

You can’t understand him if you don’t know him. You don’t understand why he would be so upset with you demanding not to kill him—such lowly worthless blood shouldn’t be spilled for your sake, you assume. Sure, he was scuffed in some parts, but you’re absolutely sure that Higgs had suffered the bare minimum. Anger and resentment are what causes those storms to brew, and you know it isn’t directed at you whenever he looks into your eyes. They’re cynical and beguiling, _yes_ , but they’re also hardened and damaged. You breathe in the smell of tuberose, immediately turning to find Higgs.

_A storm in the sea_ , you discern in those tired eyes of his.

“You’re upset with me,” Higgs has either cracked down into his real facade or he’s truly upset with you—his voice is the calmest you’ve ever heard it, and it’s almost damn-near soothing, “Guess I deserve it,”

You don’t speak, perceiving that he has much more to say but he just wants to see your reaction. You give him nothing, keeping your face turned away—fearing that everything that you’ve built would become undone with one pull with that measly loose thread. Yet, you can’t help but gnaw on your lower lip.

“Are you really prepared to have another killer in your life? You didn’t take it so well the first time…especially not in this moment either.”

Your mouth purses tightly, thoughts inextricably clustered as you realize that you didn’t know what you’d actually say to him—just laid out all the facts, “I…I’ll be fine. I can handle it on my own…that’s what I spent my whole life doing anyway.”

Once those words leave your mouth, you instantly regret that decision—Higgs’ light chuckle haunts it, “A sad life of solitude from a bullshit childhood. You’re not prepared at all, little bird. Hell, that’s why I’m _still_ here. Maybe it truly was all for nothing then, your whole life was already spent since the moment you’ve been born,”

And there it was. You almost couldn’t believe it; it was a flash of weakness in those clouded eyes of his. You finally turn to face him, it made him feel _adequate_ now, you can see it. You’re finally blessed with a sense of clarity against Higgs who finally looks to the stars with you, faint sparks gleaming in both.

“Maybe that’s why I’ve been keeping you close all this time,” Higgs frowns— _he finally fucking frowns_ —and you’re suddenly enthralled by this moment, “I guess it’s easy to tell when someone’s been broken like you. I was like that, thanks to dear old daddy of mine,”

Well, you certainly didn’t expect that.

“The only difference between you and I, little bird, is that you’re successfully beaten in already. You gave into your compliancy, being a porter to prove otherwise doesn’t mean shit; you’re still following orders. You’re still picking up on daddy and momma’s lessons, afraid that if you don’t, you’ll end up with a bullet in your side again—“

_“—Higgs—“_

He stops you by coming close in strides, and you can hardly process his advancements until he is already chest-to-chest with you. You were utterly lost in the sea, facing the storm head on with no way out but to listen to its rage. Higgs’ hands rise to touch the underside of your forearms, gently trailing up his fingers to meet your palms, and all the while, you’re too _**scared**_ to move. You’re afraid he’ll throw you to the moon if you move away.

“—It wasn’t just our daddies that made us feel this way,” Higgs’ forehead comes down to rest against yours, and you shudder upon the chill of his creased skin, “We were already taught that the outside world would give us nothing but death. We’ve both seen it, up close and personal, swore to god that what we saw was the truth and that we’d never go near it again. But I got out, little bird, I flew from the cage. From that _**fucking**_ _steel sky._ Even after all those beatings, whatever scrap of affection he had to give, I knew the truth,“

A heated sigh fans against your cheeks, and tuberose nearly dizzies you. The only sobriety that you have to lean on is the pressure of Higgs’ hands that were now holding your own, a small grace of warmth that is somehow strong enough for you to ignore the night breeze that blows against the nape of your neck.

Higgs takes a small pause to breathe, “And I want you to stay with me a little longer until you realize that truth, too.”

That night, you try to comprehend the revelation that Higgs doesn’t understand you either.

* * *

are we getting into some A N G S T ?? ohohoho I think so (つ◉益◉)つ higgs is finally becoming real with reader, i've been waiting for this for so long. I hope I did okay lmao. thank you so much for reading, much love! 


	13. Chrysalism「13」

## 𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫.

_Shit, what **happened** yesterday?_

It’s been a while since you’ve overworked your muscles, _holy hell_ , does it fucking hurt. Sensitivity trickles down your limbs, slowly but surely regaining the feel for each. The memories then grow louder—pounding against your eardrums, and it makes you groan. You’re afraid that your bones have gone soft or brittle after being in that kind of fray, you crashed on the reverse trike, almost every inch of your skin was peeled off and rubbed red after skidding so far like that. But you were just lucky that you didn’t break anything—more-so over the fact that you were still alive. 

Along with regaining the feeling in your limbs, you become aware of what— ** _who_** —is circled around you. A thickset of arms weighs down your side, a calloused palm and longer fingers splayed across the small of your back. It’s Higgs, you realize, and then you remember that familiar rise of stubbornness throughout your chest when you asked him to stay at his bunker for the night. He was easily persuaded, insisting that you should rest on such wounds that he claimed were an eyesore—and yet he managed to stomach the sight in order to bandage them, you see.

The space between you two is your hands laced together. His nails barely dig into the back of your knuckles, while yours is subconsciously tight under the gauze that almost covered the entirety of your arm. You realize a moment later that you didn’t have wounds on this arm—only your hand. Your chuckle comes out in a quiet hum, _half-assed work_ , you think. Your gaze trails up the sides of his shoulder, where he still donned that bloody cloak of his, before finding his face. 

Every part of your periphery finds either darkness or his skin, honing your focus on those damned tattoos of his. Two small equations where his eyebrows should be, two equations just above the start of his nose, and a full one right in the middle of his forehead. What’s odd though, is that some of the numbers and letters are still raw and red, not completely healed yet. _Poke-and-stick effort_ , you think, but the thought is whisked away when storm-brewed eyes meet yours.

_Oh, fuck._

An unrelenting wicked grin and deep chuckle immediately fills your senses, and you try to find refuge in the bunched up pillow under your head. The clutch on you grows tighter, and yet you don’t give into his teasing as you pull your aching and throbbing arms away from him. An ardent breath hits the tip of your flushed ears, eliciting a violent jerk away in an attempt to roll out of the cot—yet Higgs won’t let you go still. Instead, he pulls you closer. 

“Good morning, little bird,” He croons against the column of your throat, eliciting a strained whine from your bloody lips as his weight dips upon your sore frame, “Look at you, up bright and early just to get a gander of me. The early bird gets the worm, huh?”

In stubborn retaliation, you successfully thwart your knee against his wound—yet your eyes widen when he doesn’t retreat from the crook of your neck—he doesn’t look the least bit hurt, “The hell? Higgs, you’re—“

“—Quite the miracle, huh? Guess you had a right to admire me,” His nose brushes against the length of your jaw, where you feel every sinful stretch and crease of his grin against your skin, “I’m all healed, thanks to you. Better than ever, even.”

An elfin hum reaches your ears while you’re busy curling your fingers into his shoulders to push him away, “I’m anything but. You’re— _for fuck’s sake_ —you’re good now, right? All better and ready to get off my back?”

“Aw, don’t be like that. Admit it, your life would be boring without me.”

_What an absolute asshole._

You were a bit afraid that he would remark how your heart would ‘ _soar_ ’ again. It was a feeling that you don’t even understand and yet it greatly vexes you. Saying you enjoy his company is a bit of a long stretch; you fairly tolerated him. You weren’t content with the thought of being under him forever, viewed as some lowlife, another body to burn when the end of times came around, so you continued to fight him. This endless banter that you weren’t tired of threatened to pull a laugh from the deepest pit of your stomach, and yet you swallowed down such a thing. It would mean that you lost; that you wanted to continue being by his side as the little bird on his shoulder.

Your hand splayed out against his chest while his own stretched across the curve of your hip, this entanglement seemed impossibly close, yet he somehow found a way to be closer. The bunker was filled with the sound of his incessant short breaths leaving his nose and mouth the more his smile pressed against you, as if he was inhaling drugs— _flowers_ —taking you in like you were some kind of intoxicant. _This needs to stop_ , you think, you’re finally free and yet the bastard just won’t let you go. Freedom is in sight but out of reach, typical of Higgs.

“Angels seem to be gracing me with their presence these days,” A confused mumble escapes you—you almost weren’t paying attention at all—and Higgs elaborates while snaking a hand to cradle the back of your head, “Went to the Beach last night. Met with Amelie,”

That seemed to steady you pretty quickly, your eyes downcast upon him, and you don’t fail to notice how he looks rather obliged, “Glad you were here with me though, sweetheart. Thank god…us, sufferers tend to get riled up during the visions. Getting better didn’t come without agony.”

“Amelie,” You muttered, you tongue rolling across the top row of your teeth as you head recollects with recent thoughts, “Why would you have those nightmares…and see Amelie Strand?”

He doesn’t answer you—dismay does.

A wet and sharp sensation of teeth solely focuses in the middle of your throat. _This fucking bastard,_ you think. By now, you’ve already reached the threshold of this unknown form of intimacy with each other and fisted the hem of his cloak where his tensely-built shoulders rested, attempting to pry him off.

_“Higgs, come on. Get—“_

“—I’m afraid I’m gonna have to leave you high and dry again,” He sighs into your flushed skin, raising his head to meet your eyes whilst you’re stunned upon seeing that golden jaw of his—his mask is back on again—and you involuntarily tighten your grip on him, “Come tomorrow, I’ll officially be making my way towards camp back in Edge Knot. But I have some business to take care of down in Port Knot City first. We can’t stay and entertain each other for a long while, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

Your eyes narrow, not of disappointment, but with skepticism, “You’re not sorry, Higgs. You’re just saying that so I won’t be as mad at you after I find out that you’d blown up Port Knot.” 

That hum of amusement again, it sounds so rigorous and machine-like thanks to that mask, it is frighteningly _hollow_ to your ears, “You really are clever, little bird. Maybe too clever for your own good.”

A chiral jump ensues, leaving you flushed with black tears running down your cheeks. You scrub at them furiously; _he could’ve fucking warned you_. As you take in the freeing sensation of being alone in Higgs’ bunker, your attention is drawn to the ceiling.

_Great, just great._

You don’t have it in yourself to leave Higgs’ bunker yet, thanks to the stranger.

The two of you hardly talked about him last night. Neither one of you understood what had happened or who that could be. Higgs had tried to call his fellow terrorists back in Edge Knot City if there were any signs of a scarred person in a helmet trekking throughout their camp, equipped with a rogue-issue BB unit. Meanwhile, you did the same with Lockne, asking for subtlety in her investigations for anyone suspicious treading throughout Mountain Knot. After constantly reassuring her that you were fine and safe, she went through generous measures to put up heavily-guarded security protocols for as long as you were away, and you couldn’t be more grateful.

Of course, as Higgs’ way of apologizing for being cruel and almost threw someone in the sun; he bought pizza for dinner, with extra bacon and beer. Although you were the one greeting the porter at the terminal, he was fairly surprised; _Peter Englert never came out of his bunker!_ _You must be his **wife** he talks so much about._ And, through gritted teeth and a painful smile, you thanked him and chucked a slice at Higgs’ face as soon as you entered inside. 

Your mind also carries your consciousness to the fading images of what happened last night—when Higgs was patching you up. It was a strange tension between the two of you, almost awkward— _which you could tell was a bad thing_ —but you were too exhausted to banter or fight Higgs back when he checks your legs and arms, his examinations leaving your skin light and fuzzy, often biting your lip raw the more time you spent laying there in pain.

_“Scraped up pretty good,”_ You remember Higgs saying as a strip of gauze hangs between his teeth, using the other end to wrap the length of your arm, _“It’s a damn shame. I couldn’t sniff out their DOOMs level. Too covered up to tell.”_

_“That doesn’t matter,”_ Your voice was frail and uncharacteristically gentle, you can see that his eyes flicker to yours with that hint of genuine concern, _“Whoever they are saw our faces. They have a BB unit, Higgs. BRIDGES can get to us easily now. For all we know, this is the UCA’s way of getting back at you for kidnapping Amelie and her team.”_

A cruel laugh echoes throughout your pounding head, _“The UCA or BRIDGES is not like us or my group, sweetheart. They’d be too busy with all their protocols and traditional bullshit. This stranger’s gone rouge, by the looks of it.”_

You don’t know how to feel about that, and you certainly can’t figure out anything with it.

It was hard to shake away the firmness of Higgs’ grip around every rim of your wounds. The pink flesh turned darker and rigid whenever he let go of something that bordered on painful; he was still angry, and you knew that _you_ had been a part of it. Through silence, you’re able to weave together the fragments of a theory of who this stranger was. They had a grudge against you, they’re not a prepper whose order you fucked up or smashed, you’ve done something to rouse a homicidal tendency. It could be the reason why Higgs was so controlled—almost to the point where he didn’t even care at all—where you thought he saw similarities between him and them, too.

_He’s growing soft_ , you thought as he finishes wrapping the wound on your ankle, _and it’s only a matter of time before he realizes it and builds his walls twice as high._

_Whatever_. As long as you knew he was full of absolute shit.

What were you supposed to do now?

You go through his shit, _that’s what._

Although Higgs’ bunker wasn’t as big as yours, it was still a fucking pigsty and had a lot of ground to cover. You felt like you didn’t get enough of what mattered during your last unwanted stay here, and maybe you’d get some answers snooping through his stuff—you couldn’t feel the least bit guilty; he stole dad’s gun. Hell, maybe you’d finally get some answers as to what was going on and why he’d leave for Port Knot before going to Amelie. _That, too_ , you remembered somberly, he said that Amelie visited him, came to him before or after the nightmares— _you didn’t know_ —but felt like there was something that he was hiding than ignoring from you. You started with the boxes under his cot, moving with shy reluctance in fear you would find something… _vulgar_. Though, if you did, you wouldn’t be too shocked.

What you found instead while rooting through the box was pre-Stranding era gadgets. There were a few boxes of blank polaroid with a working camera, it explained the abundance of pictures on the walls. It was heavy and unlike the regular built-in holographic cameras made these days, fumbling in your hands as your strength wasn’t quite ready to handle the weight. The one your parents had was taken with them when they left the bunker, and you were slightly disheartened now that you didn’t have it anymore. It immortalized memories, in a way, particularly happy ones that only make you sad for that sense of nostalgia. A smile crept along the corners of your lips, genuine yet ghostly—before it gnashes apart by the baring of your teeth. 

**_CLICK!_ **

You’re struck with a blazing light pounding against your eyes, and you drop the camera back inside the box. Bright iridescent phosphenes invade your dark periphery, and you blink away the assault with some tears stinging the corners of your eyes. _The hell_ , you think, looking back down to pick up the camera that gives a birr, then a whizz—slowly sliding out a used picture. _Oh, god_ , you think, _it’s you._ Your smile is illuminated by the flash, the shine of your eyes fitted on the frame compliments the darker background—you immediately move over towards the trash bin and chuck it in, fearing that Higgs will find it.

Working your way throughout the other corner, you examine the writings on the wall with uncertainty. Higgs really was a child, wasn’t he? A phrase in hieroglyphics is scrawled out in blue, above is Amelie’s name recited in some form of poetry. There are also many more pictures this time, scattered in a messy collage on the wall connected by red string. Some conspiracy, Higgs. In great disgust, you find multiple pizza boxes tucked and smashed in the shelves holding two skulls; Australopithecus afarensis and Homo Erectus—it reminded you greatly of Doctor Heartman’s collection. The Egyptian pharaoh head in the corner, however, deflates the thematic. It’s polished regularly, you note, tracing the two golden cobras—Uraeus, is labeled on a post-it note to the left. 

This place is a wondrous trove of treasures that borders on plain weird and yet seems to heighten your thirst under morbid curiosity. You weren’t particularly materialistic, you left that up to your parents and their ungodly gifts. This was a rather exciting change, not at all worried about what could transpire if Higgs found you snooping through his belongings. You’re in someone else’s space, yes, but this guy has put you through literal hell, so if you find a decapitated rotting head somewhere—that’s all on him. 

A familiar sound pings throughout the room.

The monitors. A sense of dread unconsciously fills you, remembering that the last time you looked at his screens, the announcement that Middle Knot had been blown up was typed out in white above blue. You feared that Higgs was following up on his promise, that he actually managed to nuke another city while you’re here taking pictures of yourself and enabling him, like an idiot. You practically fly from the cot, scrambling to the keyboard before pulling up the notification window, fervent eyes unable to absorb the words, but each and every letter. Your mouth forms various vowels and your tongue wipes the bottom of your lip, ignoring the excess coppery excess blood on its tip.

**PRIVATE** —spelled out big red letters under a folder at the top left—just begging to be read. Your hand moved to the mouse and swept it across the desk, opening it with eagerness. More panels—more entries. _Was this all Higgs’ stuff?_ Your eyes scanned the headings of each file, and a vigorous, unkempt giggle bubbled from your lips.

_His journal_ , it read, _**Higgs’?**_

“No fucking way,” You breathe incredulously, letting that full-blown grin reach from ear-to-ear for a second before you overcome the giddiness bloom through your chest, “This is practical. I expected a pretty-pink book with rainbow stickers.”

Nobody was listening—at least, you hoped so—but you didn’t care. A hard snort shook your shoulders as you swiped the panel open, reading the first entry that didn’t have a specified date or time, which only piqued more curiosity as you wondered just what Higgs could have been doing. Your thoughts trickled down to what his life must’ve been like before turning into a terrorist—remembering that he mentioned his ‘ _daddy_ ’. You shake away these thoughts when you remember the word ‘ _beatings_ ’, too and begin reading.

**_‘I've discovered the truth about the Death Stranding,’_ **

And immediately, you stop.

That ‘ _soar_ ’ in your heart vanished in an instant. You weren’t ashamed to admit that it was even there in the first place, especially since Higgs wasn’t breathing down your neck now. It was one of those moments of rare clarity that made you feel in control. Even now, curiosity overpowered your sense of dread, especially since it concerned the fucking Death Stranding. You were finally gonna get some answers and do something about it. You don’t care whether or not if Higgs won’t be there in the end, you just know that you’ll be satisfied with something; either silence or screams. 

**_‘Amelie’s powers have nothing to do with DOOMS,’_** You narrowed your eyes—clueless on the fact that she was a sufferer, **_‘She’s destruction incarnate. The angel of the Death Stranding. The extinction entity,’_**

“What?”

_No, you…you **can’t** have read that right_. Amelie. _Amelie?_ Amelie Strand caused— _fuck_ — **no**. You’re hardly appalled at the migraine burning holes at the side of your temples, and you feel a revolting force thrash in your stomach. It’s repugnant, tightening in your chest and makes your head sway sidewards. Your body hunches over the desk, the base of your palms gripping the edge for dear life. _Why—What the—_ How in the _world_ could Amelie Strand be an Extinction Entity? All of Heartman’s notes that you’ve discarded all comes flooding back. He said they were the key— _what fucking key_ —the key to timefall and chiralium? _DOOMs?_

_The herald of Death— **her** herald._

The hair over your eyes parts with your fanning, heavy breath. Unfortunately, as you scan the other entries, you find that they’re all locked. _No_ , you shake your head furiously, _this can’t be it_. No one knew how the Death Stranding came to the Earth—it just _happened_. How could it happen from the UCA president’s daughter? Those dreams about Amelie on the Beach, that same dulcet woman in the red dress who walked among limbo, you wondered if she had an agenda on her own; if you were just another impending casualty. A pawn, just another body to go necro, truly a little bird on their shoulder. You kept reading, fearing now of the consequences you could face as you do so.

**_‘I understand now what my true role is. The bridge that will deliver her judgment to this world. The executor of the end. No one knows. Not even Sam. But they will. My little bird is still soaring high.’_**

You don’t hold back on the visceral, furious groan, followed by your fist smashing and chipping the edge of the desk, leaving your wounds all the more bloody, burning, bruised, and broken. 

You’re at the point of no return.

Amelie Strand is the sixth Extinction Entity, the cause of the Death Stranding.

You didn’t at all care for Heartman’s notes, but that did not mean you _didn’t_ read them. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting at Higgs’ desk. Half an hour, maybe. Hell, even hours. You don’t know why the hell you’re even still here. All you can settle for now is your thoughts and the darkness within the room, both of which gave you hardship. Your chin rests over your folded arms, kept tight by your bruised hands clutching the balls of your shoulders. The muscles beneath your skin are tender and rigid, and you’re desperate for the sleep that you hope will be just as quiet and peaceful. You wonder why Higgs is truly keeping you alive, remembering that he saw similarities between you two regarding your upbringings. Your father was a harsh man, but Higgs’ seemed to be _cruel_. _One bullet wound didn’t hold a light to years of beatings_ , you think. He could be lonely, it made sense.

You’ve practically ransacked the bunker after finding the journal entry, tearing through his clutter of books that pooled at your feet, endless buckram and leather hard covers left splayed open and crooked across the floor. You tried to see where he was coming from; what Higgs’ ideology was to make him accept helping someone…or _something_ like Amelie. The circumstances that you’ve just begun to adapt within are now starting to make sense, causing it to become all the more fearsome and worth escaping from. _Could you run away? Could you depart from America and finally leave Higgs just like you initially wanted?_ He’s busy, and as of right now, you don’t think that Higgs would ever realize it.

And yet, it is unknown and awful for you not knowing if Higgs would be back ever again, and you knew all this interest and pain would follow you to the ends of the Earth. Wavering phosphenes slowly sink into the inky whites of the concrete walls, trickling within your periphery in mindless patterns, and it was enough for you to be so overwhelmed to lull drowsily. Your thoughts waver one final time as sleep moves in swift currents that surges into your head, overlapping everything that had pressured you into a throbbing headache. The darkness gets darker when you finally close your eyes.

It’s painful and soothing all at once, an all too regular course of feelings these days, and you don’t know how much more you can take it.

Everything that you’ve avoided to get pricked by comes back to hit you twice as hard. You hear waves and let them come easily to you. The desk under your arms just feels like a surface, something hard, a rock—you see. It takes a while for you to even open your eyes. The distant crash on the shores instill that sense of fear as you find yourself on the Beach again. And this time, you’re alone. Higgs isn’t here, not even Amelie. You removed yourself from the rock you’re leaned heavily against, savoring the movement in your limbs that are free from pain, beginning to step towards the sea. The black sand crunched under your feet makes you sink a little, and you’re worried that if you look down and see your reflection—in the sand that’ll become tar—you’d get swallowed whole completely. There is no storm on the horizon, oddly enough. The sky is clear and grey, a garish light in the distance that hardly looks like the sun.

The currents brush against your ankles, shivering at the icy waters coursing around your bare skin. There is a dolphin to your left and a shark to your right—black as coal—beached. You wonder if they’re even alive at some point, or if they came from the world of the living and just died here. Why are you here? Does that mean you’re dead? _That doesn’t sound too bad_ , you think, _going in your sleep could’ve been the most peaceful thing than what Higgs and Amelie might have planned for the rest of humanity_. There’s a sound behind you, heavy and with an odd clank, though it takes you a few seconds to even turn the muscles in your neck. 

Across the shore, you see them; _the stranger._ They certainly look better than the last time you saw them, not having their face pummeled in. Their helmet is directed at you, their small blinking goggles reflecting off of your figure as you keep your distance. You don’t know what to do but stare. There’s that foul fougére stench again, fresh-cut fern stinging your nostrils, and it was incredibly different now that you expected the smell of burnt flesh instead. The corners of your lips upturn—a pathetic form of a greeting—and your eyes flicker back to the shark on your right. 

“I assume you’re a level five then,” You breathe wistfully, shrugging your shoulders, “You’re not a walking memory…so assuming that since you could use the Beach, I think you’re in the higher ranks,”

They don’t say anything to you, nor do they move. Yet, you keep smiling.

“Want to explain to me why I seem to attract mass murderers and assholes like a magnet these days? Or did those burns get up to your throat? Cause then, I suppose I also have a natural affinity for not getting straight answers, too.”

Finally, what almost takes your whole damn breath away, is a single pointed finger directing along the shoreline. Your eyes immediately follow, your gaze scraping by darkness, marine carcasses, and misery; all to find Amelie **_fucking_** Strand approaching her way. She’s smiling— _of course, she was_ —and when you look back at the stranger, they are turned with you, too. Except this time, they _bow_ before her. One knee in the sand and their head damn close to it, and you don’t know what to do with yourself but stand around like a clueless dope. Amelie’s red heels are so different from this bleak underworld that the sight of her almost hurts your eyes, but you’re unyielding to her air of persuasion and angelic facade; you know what she is. And she knows it, too.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Amelie says to you, her head nodding slightly in acknowledgement to which you bite your tongue to prevent scoffing, “I’ve come with good news.”

**_Good news?_** Your eyes met with Amelie’s, and you understood that she had a talent for clairvoyance, given into your anger, “You’re the Extinction Entity.”

You tell it like it is and you don’t feel sorry for it.

Amelie folds one hand over the other, clearly trying to adjust this hostility you’re emitting—and you know that you have a right to do so. She brought the end of the world, there can be no justification for something that big on the scale. Now, you understand why she set out on her expedition in the first place; trying to put America back together. You don’t believe that she’s just picking up on her mother’s motto, _no_ , it’s like they’re acting in tandem. You frown when Amelie tries to approach closer, and jump when the stranger rises from the sand. Still, as silent as ever.

“I understand that you have questions. Plenty, I’m sure,” That was a bit of an understatement, you think with raised brows, “But first, I’d like to show you something.”

“ _My_ _death_ , I’m assuming,” You snap, “That’s who you are, right? Or _what_ you are. Higgs called you some kind of angel, but I kind of have a habit of wanting to avoid killers. You expect me to follow you like part of your flock? You’re the shepherd and the wolf. I know you’re not gonna give me answers.”

Apparently, you’re errant in being a nuisance in all the right spots. The stranger was there to prove that, their hand lurching in a clawed, rigorous form—forcing you down to your knees without even touching you, just like what Higgs did to them. Whatever the fuck they were doing, it burns. _Jesus, it fucking **burns**_. The stranger doesn’t hold back in their assault that grows more excruciating with every ripple in their fingers, and Amelie doesn’t bother to stop them. She just watches you, hands folded over the other over her hips, that tender expression turning quite somber. They’re working together. Seems like you’ve struck a nerve in both.

“You have become part of the truth now, thanks to Higgs,” Her voice is accompanied by thunder—the pounding of your ears that races up to your heartbeat—and you choke back on a groan when you feel that coil tighten, “It wasn’t supposed to happen this early, truthfully, but it has. So, don’t get presumptuous. You’re bold. That enough is already a good thing; you’re ready for an untimely death. You have asked for it many times since meeting him, begged for the end even if his methods were painful or lengthy. And yet you won’t follow through with me, when I could offer you a method without _either_. Why?”

_Definitely a level five_ , you think blearily.

Your body is yanked upright and you can feel your spine writhe and nearly snap in two—you don’t know how much more you can take, “Because— _f-fuck_ —Because Higgs isn’t a-a goddamn Extinction E-Entity!”

You can taste the blood worm from the back of your throat and slither to the tip of your tongue. Acidic refluxes are much better than this, it’s much milder in the burn. And yet you want to keep tearing into these people— _sufferers_. The bottom of your periphery is of Amelie and her hand that slowly rises, and in synchronicity, your forehead presses into the sand. The stranger relents on your defiance, dragging a heavy boot back to keep themselves distant from the anger that rises through you. How did you let yourself become like this? _Fuck these sufferers_ , you spite and scrape your cheek against the grating sand, _fuck everything._

“Higgs has kept you from a lot of things. About me. But that doesn’t mean that you should hate him for it. If you knew what was coming—“

“—I don’t care how it comes,” You spit, blazing eyes reaching hers, and yet she is unmoved, “All this time, I thought that it would come when humanity was ready, so there was no point in losing my shit worrying about it. But to end it all without giving us a chance? _Fuck that_. Just because I amused him enough to get close doesn’t mean I should be subjected to favoritism and spared from the truth and all bullshit. And all those times when I asked to die, those were _my_ calls, _my decisions_. I deserve that much to keep my dignity from being pissed away by the likes of you.”

You’re pulled back by gloved hands, latched right onto the nape of your neck that sends your nose pointed to this cruel, steel-grey sky. _You don’t feel any wind here_ , you realize, there are no forces powerful enough to sway the dead. They are undeserving for movement or life, for they do not need it. Amelie’s eyes are no different; undeserving of any compliancy from you, and for a second you almost thank Higgs but spite him, too. He’s the scythe of the reaper, he was only going to tell you until half the world was already up in flames. _Fuck them all_ , your mind rages with the phrase countlessly, _fuck every single one of them._

“I’m just a porter,” You wheeze with violent shudders upon your chest and shoulders, and you savor the fact that you’re the one cruelly laughing this time, “That’s all I am; just a _fucking_ **_porter_**. Sure, I’ve accepted that the world is fucked up and kept living with it—if that’s what you call seeing the truth. But what the hell do you expect me to do? You three all have your big plan anyway to let the world burn. Why does it matter if I’m any different?”

You spit blood into the sand, glaring at the sky that finally shifts with a dark storm, “So, fuck all of you. It’s my turn to fly away.”

You’ve been expelled from the Beach, waking up with your head in your arms folded over Higgs’ desk. The silence is a formality that you instantly settle with. You’ve hardly gotten the answers you wanted, but it’s not like it was going to matter now anyway, right? _You need to leave_ , your mind thinks quietly, _get away from Higgs, America, **all of it.**_

“Little bird,” A voice echoes from behind you, “What do you think you’re doing?”

* * *

when you literally fall asleep in the middle of writing and completely screw up your whole schedule :)

ahhhhhhgghhhh--I'm so sorry for the wait! writing everyday is finally biting me in the ass and I think I'm gonna start pacing the release of these chapters much more slower. but we're finally getting into some delicious A N G S T , and there's so many questions to be asked. 

thank you to everyone who has been so patient with me and has been enjoying my story so far, I am so thankful. ( •̀ᄇ• ́)ﻭ✧ I'll keep doing my best and hopefully I won't crash and burn. much love! 


	14. Fanaa「14」

## 𝐀 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 

**_Oh, shit._ **

A storm raging on the shore, for it is no longer distant; but cruel and close.

What looms over you, stretched across the disordered room that you’ve wrongfully torn apart for some bullshit revelation, elongated whilst standing at the doorway, was Higgs’ shadow. And you can’t even bring yourself to look at it. _A reaper at your door_ , how about that? What fresh hell he brings comes with the clap of thunder, rain pelting hard against the steel-frame tunnel, and the sharp stretch of tuberose and petrichor. You’d think that after everything, he wouldn’t be able to scare you. _God, if there is one_ , you begin to pray, _leave a generously big spot for me in Hell, would you?_ The trickle of terror than concern crippled what anger and exasperated words you might have to throw at him, instead dying at the end of your tongue that still had the residue of bile and blood, thanks to the vehemence of the stranger. You weren’t entirely sure if you were prepared to face whatever came out of _Higgs_ , where only now you were able to see the layers of his bravado peeling back—dripping from his blackened skin—blazing against your meek form.

And yet, you don’t owe him a damn thing, and stupidly, you’re sticking to it.

Finally, he speaks in that abrasively low voice of his, “How much did you see?”

_Everything_ , is one answer. _Some_ , is another. But neither delivered enough justice to conquer what atrocities you had been ruminating these past hours on an endless loop. You weren’t here nor there, wondering what to say nor trying to reshape what you had seen into coherent sentences. Amelie, that unknown bastard, their Beach—the connections. _You saw enough, hadn’t you?_ You had just barely seen the truth— _ **their** truth_—while hoping to hold onto your own. With your silence, Higgs is remarkably patient, and it brings a sense of curiosity and sympathy; wondering if he had acted the same when he was first asked that question—after he learned everything. Yet, his forbearance could only last for so long as you could feel the thick atmosphere of the stale space in the bunker grow nauseating. 

“Enough.” It’s all you say, and you were able to see Higgs’ head slowly tilt from the faded tip of your periphery, refusing to meet his eyes with your head ducked into your arms.

“You’re too damn clever enough to know that’s not a good answer.”

_Ever so perceptible, aren’t you, asshole?_ That measly opinion is just enough to get your mouth flowing with venom.

“It’s better than nothing,” You blustered, eyes rising to meet him where you finally wanted to challenge his vain front, “Unlike what you’ve been giving me this entire time.”

He said he’d never bite that hand that feeds him, but you questioned if he fared in snapping his fangs at them. Truthfully, you wanted him to shout, let the walls crash down on you from the ferocity of his rage—you knew he was capable of doing so, even without his DOOMs—it would make up for a lot after being his preciously favored accomplice. Pure and raw anger doesn’t come to you easily anymore, not from others, and yet you _craved_ to see it from him; hoping that for once, he would break and tell you the truth. However, you were only vaguely aware of your own damned self, struggling to stand from his illuminated desk that bled onto your skin—an effulgence of blues tracing every arch and curve of your form, while Higgs’ was outlined ruggedly by a flash of _light_ —lightning. 

_“Little bird—“_

**“Don’t—“** That fucking name again, you cursed, gripping the edge of the desk with white knuckles, _“—Don’t_ …Don’t you **_dare_** call me that while letting me think that I'm just another victim to you,”

That’s all you were, right? Just another body to burn in the great ending? _Whatever,_ you spite, _what’s the point in you being so angry over it, anyway?_

“I saw the truth, Higgs. Isn’t…isn’t that what you wanted? Isn't that why you kept me _alive?_ So that you could prove that the living are just souls that haven’t crossed over to the fucking Beach yet?” Something begs for you to stop now, but there’s a crack in the dam, a flood of emotions spilling out as easily as it was for your anger to course throughout your trembling body, “Go ahead, I’ve learned it. I’ve finished the last lesson. Do it. Kill me… _Sever my wings, you selfish bastard.”_

That pensive look again, the way how well any minuscule curve at the corner of his lips fit onto his face, _god_ , it made you want to scream; vexed by how even in this situation did he find you amusing. He didn’t move from where he stood, just slanted—leaning against the doorframe where his head rested against the steel-lining. You were unmoved, harboring a deep sense of uncertainty by the way he stared you down. 

“My point was to make you understand that the end is inevitable, whether they are dead or alive. Extinction Entity or mortal,” An increment of salt was served in that heavy tone of his, rousing your doubts further, “I thought that maybe we’d go out easy. No matter the reason how chummy we were with each other.”

A hard scoff flew from your mouth, “No, it won’t. It would be anything but easy. Not while you’re trying to jump-start it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

_Would it even make a difference?_

“Would it have been better to die off early? By my own hand? With no idea of what to expect or what to prepare for? Could you have accepted that kind of fate? You’ve never seen anything. You’re not a sufferer, no DOOMs abilities, no haunting visions of a world perishing by inevitable forces. You wouldn’t have been able to—“

“—You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” You harshly severed, striding in closer, “ _Yes_ , Higgs. I absolutely would’ve been able to handle it. For fuck’s sake, that’s Amelie’s entire reason why I fit so perfectly into this whole mess. I told you from the start; kill me so I wouldn't have to put up with any and all of your bullshit. But, _no_. You kept me by your side, you kept being this pain in my ass. Why? Because you don't have a neck to lick? Because you thought that someone lower than you could see and accept you for what you really are?” 

Higgs doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything—for all you knew, he could be just blocking you out like the stubborn child he really was.

“I suppose you couldn’t get any of those things from Amelie. You’re not special, Higgs. You’re just…fallacious to everyone and yourself,”

This was one of those rare moments when you thanked your parents, earning that sharp veer of his head that aimed exactly in your direction. You hardly froze after hitting that perfect spot, the mouth on you was either a blessing or a curse by how Higgs was finally being able to pay attention to your truth. Another clap of lightning, brighter this time, and you’re finally blessed with the wrath that he tried to keep contained in that balled up fist by his side. A great effort was put into stifling that snort throttling up in the air, maintaining your gaze with Higgs’ and finally felt yourself coalesce with the ambience.

_Prove it to me_ , you thought quietly, _you can be different if you told the fucking truth._

“Maybe that’s all you are, Higgs, just delusional and constantly being tantalized,” You felt the muscles in your shoulders pulled back, rolling into ease, complemented with a heavy sigh through your nose, “In the end, it doesn’t matter, right? All the favoritism is all bullshit.”

Higgs began nodding, pushing himself back straight from the door, “Hell, maybe. But I suspect that you’re not any different.”

_“Excuse me?”_ You snarl, watching that fist clutching his upper thigh loosen and rub flat against his other hand—finding the guise of some dark wispy power dancing up in a trail above his fingertips.

“You could've left. You had so many chances to do it but you didn't go through with any opportunity. Now, I get why you hesitated after trying to kill me, when you found out that I was a repatriate. But you could've left the bunker and left me to die on your couch. You would've been free,”

_What the actual— **What!?**_ “Instead of decency, you turned back in compliancy. You must’ve thought that by saving me, you’d save yourself. Daddy’s gun wasn’t at all what you were trying to protect, right?”

Blood on snow, seawater on sand, it didn’t matter. No, it _didn’t_. _It_ _fucking didn’t_. **_No!_**

The room resonated and trembled with the ear-splitting crack of lightning and the deep tones of his chortle, yet you flinched to neither. The storm was growing worse, the thunder wasn’t distant and wheeling in a disarrayed tumble across the despondent sky, and all you’ve been doing was listen. You rolled with the punches, scraped yourself off the floor when life slapped another pile of bullshit across your face, and now, you took a heavy step forward; you were tired of listening.

_“Us against the world,”_ You reiterated, narrowing against his sardonic gaze, “Through thick and thin, right? Isn’t that what you said? You wouldn’t have left me alone, asshole. And it was because I’m not a sufferer and don’t have DOOMs that made that job easy for you.”

“I _know_ what I said,” His taut voice provoked a sense of satisfaction in you, fighting that caustic smirk that you didn’t want to show to him yet, “What would you have done if I told you? If I left you alone? You wouldn’t have been able to handle it. You would’ve just given in—“

A near animalistic growl ripped through your throat, _“—No!_ You don’t know how compliant or cruel I can be. You don’t know me, Higgs. For fuck’s sake, you don’t even know my name. You flaunt about knowing things but you’re just as clueless as I am. You know my dad shot me with his gun, _so what?_ They're **gone** , dead and burned for all I care, _dead to me_. You can't sway me with what you don't have.” 

You still kept the gun.

Such a thing never fell out of your lips so plainly, but it was the truth; protection that you provided for yourself. If anyone knew, you’d have nothing; that’s why you waited for Higgs to give you back your dad’s gun. And even now, you were opting to use it—just within a reach, clinging to the back of your hip that aligned with the strap of your belt. Don’t do anything stupid, that mantra echoing inside your head was constant, a formality that you kept alive and burning as you stared down at _Higgs_ — **this terrorist.**

An immediate step; now unfortunately, that was the stupidest thing to do.

Higgs was no longer met with your gaze but the end of a loaded barrel, the front side chip leveling just below your eyes that had become nothing but his darkened periphery. It was laughable how much it showed that he didn’t expect this, but he remained still, docile and unmoved under your gaze. And, dare you say it, **_compliant_** —even if the leer never left his face.

“Darlin’, you and I both know this isn’t gonna kill me.”

“I know it won’t,” You rebuff, aiming in the space between those fucking goddamn equation tattoos of his, “But it’ll give me plenty of time to get up and out of here, which is precisely what you **_don’t_** want,”

Higgs doesn’t utter a word, his eyes don’t widen or narrow, he just stands there; you’ve torn apart his final nerve.

_Do something, you fucking idiot._ At that corrosive plea, you don’t even know if you’re referring to yourself or Higgs.

“I’m leaving,” You cocked the handle, fighting a simultaneous battle to keep yourself from withdrawing in weakness—fighting the tears, the tremble in your grip, the waver in your voice, _all the fucking **pain**_ , “We’re done here, Higgs. I’m flying out of here for good.”

This tight coil of nerves in your stomach began to twist the longer you waited for something; anything. A movement, a word, a fucking breath. Nothing came from either of you, and you don’t know how much more you can take.

_“Get out of my way!”_

And stupidly, _so stupidly_ , you fired the gun just beside his head. 

The revolting amount of volume the gun ricocheted off these walls made every fibre of your being scorch and scream bloody-murder, and the stifle in your steps finally made the valiance in you to crack momentarily. You had prayed that the roar was from lightning destroying the bunker instead, but Higgs ceased your hopes with a chiral jump. He did it to provoke you and to save you, but you were left clueless on what this was for.

He appeared in a burst of disembodied shadows and crackling cinders, clouding your periphery enough to distract your focus from your gun and onto him. Your wrist jolted backwards under Higgs’ grip, completely dislodging your fingers around the weapon that you couldn’t even fumble to retrieve back because of his gaze piercing into yours. Tender and unyielding, impeccably stoic under this kind of face of danger that you haven’t presented well enough, not with Higgs— _no_ , he knew you didn’t have it in yourself to shoot him directly. You were not inexperienced with a gun, so you wondered why you were so shaken by the recoil. He slid the gun into his hand and adjusted his aim between your eyes, and all you did was stare back.

The grip around your wrist jutted away, and you’re left with that agonizing sight of the clawed poise of his gloved hand, the coolness of the tight leather still fresh and painful upon your skin. He pulled away as if you were made of an untamable fire, a thing he could actually feel pain by, and it made you let out a free breath of laughter. _What an idiot_ , your breathless chuckle was severed by the violent crushing force around your neck, and it wasn’t at all unfamiliar with that bitter tang of blood rising to your teeth. Higgs lifted you, and you could feel the crown of your head press against the ceiling—he did it all without even touching you, but looked like it took every ounce of brain power he was capable of, as if the effort was painful. 

_Fuck no_ , you thought, _it wasn’t painful. It was **upsetting**._

You mustered the strength to look away for just a second, just to hear and imagine the sight of rain touching your skin. Such an atrocious act never happened when you were young and learning, that shit wouldn’t fly. The image of you parents soars through the darkness as errantly-shaped phosphenes dwindling in the dark, harboring some sort of disciplined expression that applied to that lesson on timefall. It also applied to BTs and void outs. And your promise to take everything and give nothing back to this godforsaken world. Everything, they were everything and _you fucking hated it._ Vile words slithered onto your normally forked-tongue, but you let them die at the edge of your breath, letting a cluster of inextricable words be heard by Higgs first than your weak laughter. You hated Higgs, you knew that for certain, but you wondered how on god’s green earth can **_pity_** conquer over that hatred.

You finally saw it; that pity, that _hesitation_. You laughed at him for it.

“Looks like daddy didn’t beat your fingers in hard enough to pull the trigger,”

The sight of Higgs’ bared teeth spears guilt into your chest, eliciting an even harder laugh.

“You’re capable of the world’s most heinous shit and you can’t even touch me,”

His hooks into your back carves a trail of regret, and your spine cannot fight the regretful chilling arch.

“You’re not special, Higgs,” You smile, “If everything changed and you didn’t, then you’re living a lie.” 

Everything is swallowed in black and the music of the storm finally subsides.

**_You are a lie, Higgs._**

You dream of blood on snow, seawater and sand, and the sound of a baby’s cry.

God did listen to your prayer that night, finding yourself awake in the bunker after opening your eyes.

There is no storm blustering and unleashing hell outside, no, there is just pure sunlight and a sky devoid of caliginous clouds, a mistake in nature that you decided to look past. The instance you had awoken, you knew that you weren’t passing through the motions of an illusion that Higgs or some other fucker could have conjured. As you went up to the front door, craning your neck to the lightbulb hanging over the start of the hallway, you found that there was no gun there nor tucked in the clasps of your belt. You slept after comprehending the circumstances and understanding the situation you were currently in, almost becoming lost within the process of absorbency. You collapsed on the couch, more than comfortable in sleeping on a piece of furniture still stained with red and black, the backrest draped with bloodied gauze and other perturbing fluids. Yet you found no energy within yourself to give a fuck and slept soundly.

The next morning, you used your cufflinks and reported Higgs to BRIDGES. The authorities took four hours to arrive from the nearest connected establishment affiliated with the UCA, and it humored you that these bright-eyed fucks came all the way from Port Knot. They did a warrant search of your home, and you didn’t have a reason to care. Through contact with Lockne, you informed them of the security protocols that she and some of her team installed, hoping to ease that tension with measly small-talk. But of course, BRIDGES hardly gave a shit; they were more concerned about you, the little accomplice who denied before that you had any kind of connection with the terrorist who blew up an entire city. You told them everything, except his exact location, for some reason. That hardly mattered; Higgs was on the move anyway; nobody was able to catch him now.

They placed you under house arrest for five days, going at an extra measure for the safety of America to install security cameras at every corner around the house. Now, you really had a grudge against the UCA—you can’t even wipe your own ass without getting authorized first. Thanks to your stubbornly idiotic morality, you weren’t charged with anything serious as they deemed you a ‘ _connection_ ’ to the terrorist, not an _accomplice_ as you thought you were. You don’t know if Fragile had been informed of the situation, and frankly, you didn’t care. Fragile’s vouches would mean nothing to the UCA, not while the rumor that she was the true mastermind behind Middle Knot’s destruction was more prominent than ever. 

You were left alone.

_Truly and utterly alone._

The silence lasted until the third morning, and only then were you able to gather enough courage to open your logs and check your messages. You were surprised; only three people contacted you. The first was Doctor Heartman— _of course, it was_ —and he had expressed his concerns, resentment, and understandings into a fucking thesis in 500 characters. A few ‘ _I had no idea_ ’ phrases combined with ‘ _was this the purpose of my researc_ h’ really drove the point home about how much this man can either be incredibly thoughtful or just plain loquacious. He mentioned nothing of Extinction Entities, of which you were exceptionally grateful for, faring well with controlling your morbid curiosities and impulses about what had just happened. 

The second message was from Lockne, asking if you knew how the security measures were holding up. In that entire body of text, there was no amount of sympathy spared in blue or white—just blunt and straight-forward, like you were some fucking business partner than a friend. The reminder that you never expressed otherwise ate away at your chest, and you replied with a half-hearted response that everything was going fine and that nothing drastic had happened. You were left on read, painfully.

“What…what the fuck?”

_The final message was from your father._

The title of the sender made you throw something at the wall in that next moment, a roar tearing out of your throat as you came down to your knees. You haven’t even opened it yet and you were this emotional already? You mentally kicked yourself, clawing at the balls of your starchily formed shoulders and attempted to cage yourself from this disgusting reality. Heaving breaths escaped from your sore throat even while you finally shoved a finger outward to unveil the message. You didn’t know what to expect, truthfully, you don’t know if he would ask what you were thinking or what lesson he wanted to remind you of after acting this stupid—there’s no doubt that he heard about what had happened, of your connections to the Homo Demens, and you steeled the knots in your stomach after thinking of what to say if he asked what was your connection with Higgs. 

You swallowed thickly, peering into the shockingly diminutive body of text that only lasted three sentences.

𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝘚𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵: 𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘦

**-**

_How are you doing? I was concerned these days; I saw what happened. Please reply, I’ll understand if you don’t._

_Sincerely,_

_Your father_

You don’t sleep that night, fearing what might be waiting for you on the other side.

Sam Porter Bridges has connected Lake and Port Knot City under the chiral network; everything is changing now. Where the land was once known as notorious became a shelter of safety, there were many beings that moved across this new expanse, connected and finally able to move as one; like a wave in the ocean. Only you didn’t want to be part of the sea foam in that current, opting to break free and move elsewhere towards the horizon completely where you were desperate to search for a place you truly belonged. _Not here_ , not in this fucked up world that was only now giving you everything you wanted when you had just exhausted yourself of any remaining dignity. You had no fear or concern towards the living who constantly acted passive and turned on you at the first sign of rebellion; _indifference_. You didn’t show enough care before, _so why should you start now?_

The news feed providing enough light to scorn your eyes came with the announcement on the sixth morning, where you were finally going to break free out of the confinements of your bunker and try to scour the area north to find the uncharted edges of the map—the place that could offer you true, blinding freedom. Mountain Knot stretched far with snow, but you didn’t care. Maybe this is what life was trying to get you to do after all; become a porter and escape this damned country. Visceral regret stung the corners of your eyes but you wiped them away with the back of your hand, scratching pink jagged lines with your nails on your cheeks when they just wouldn’t dry up fast enough. The end was nearing, and you were content with being a part of it as long as you were far enough.

You fastened the laces of your chiral boots, tapping the scuffs against the concrete with one hand splayed onto the wall, taking your sluggish weight—you were indifferent towards the fact you were still using them. No amount of sentiment would change the fact that the spiteful gear you donned would offer you immeasurable felicity. You’d be making your way northwest of Mountain Knot, right between the impassable point of Edge Knot City, deciding to make the two-day journey after stopping at the Distribution Center around that area. No one to your knowledge had the balls to go out that far, but the fear of the unknown this time didn’t stop you.

You’re going to live up to your promises from now on; ready to leave America. 

The sound of a chiral jump makes everything within you vanish, every thought, every trace of worry and confidence that you had built up to leave the bunker. The air evaporated out of your lungs and it might as well have depraved you from any oxygen in your system—you couldn’t turn to face whoever was behind you. At first, you feared that it was Higgs. Maybe he had finally worked up the nerve to kill you once and for all; maybe Amelie figured she doesn’t need you distracting her herald and opted to rid you, thinking that the task would be carried out swiftly after she learned that you accepted death in a pounding heartbeat. _Hell, maybe you still lived up to that promise_. Your second thought was the stranger, you wouldn’t be surprised if they had found you through Higgs—since they were working together after all under the Extinction Entity. _Whoever it was, just end it already._

“You don’t even have the decency to face me after what you’ve done?”

_“Fragile.”_ You breathe incredulously, graced by the sound of her tense voice.

A sharp sting connected to the side of your jaw once you turned around to look at her, your sight being attentive to the stucco interior of the bunker’s wall. Jagged patterns and swiveling lines took up most of your central vision, whilst Fragile’s hand was stiff and hung in the edge of your periphery. She was trembling, that much was clear, angry, most certainly. You did not blame her, at all. If anything, you thought you deserved more than a slap or blunt object to the face—and even then, what bloomed pink now was done with hesitancy and was just barely above a pulled punch.

_You deserve worse_ , you thought, much, much worse.

When the burn on your cheek has cooled from its swell, you turn to Fragile. You’re met with the sight of utter betrayal, tears streaming in long course rivers that weren’t at all caused by the otherworldly, and you knew that it must’ve hurt more than it came from the side of the living. You stare through your lashes and it still was more than you could bear to see this epitome of pain on any living creature— _you really didn’t have decency, did you?_ Just compliancy and cowardice. Any and all signs of raw emotions ached your chest to the point of wanting to rip your cold, beaten heart out from the cage made of cursed blood and bone. Fragile harbored that kind of power, and saying that you wished she didn’t use it on you would have been another lie to her face.

She didn’t need that, and now, she didn’t need _you_.

“What the fuck were you thinking? How could you have kept this from me!? You said you didn’t want anything to do with him!”

Fragile raked and yanked at the roots of her short, unkempt hair, stressed and pale tresses of amber almost cascading over her eyes as she tore you apart with her cold gaze. She saw nothing of what you told her you were capable of; being indifferent or scared to any and all threats, a strong sense of morale that would give anything to do what was right, and had the utmost decency to kill or at least turn in the likes of _Higgs_ — ** _a terrorist_**. She saw none of that, absolutely no trace of cunningness that you fronted as a first impression; hardly even broken fragments of what was once you, but the husk of someone unfamiliar and terrified of this life, ready to jump the ship right when it departed into the next. Fragile’s abhorrent glare bore into your forehead, where any and all effort that you had to deal with the pain was to bring a clammy hand to rest on your swollen cheek.

Either he broke you, or you let yourself become broken.

“Where is he?” She asked you, gripping the ends of your shoulders vicely, “Tell me where the _fuck_ he is!”

You didn’t look up to answer her, “I don’t know.”

A jab to the stomach made you double over, your hand all but forgetting the sensation of pain in your face to move onto your certainly forming bruise. Another welt seamed against the side of your hip, thanks to Fragile’s knee, all the while she was blubbering and spitting constantly in the wild mane of your hair, asking where Higgs was over and over again. A fist connected to your collarbone. A foot stomped into the arch of your back. Anything and everything that Fragile had to give of her rancor, disappointment, pain, and what she harbored after the timefall incident, she took it out on you. Your eyes finally met when she shoved you onto your back, glowered by the unrelenting fury that seemingly blinded her from showing remorse—she must’ve not gotten the memo about how you were practically just a witness, a ‘connection’. You weren’t an accomplice to any of this, you didn’t help or turn the other way when Higgs decided to create another atrocity against humanity. If anything, you were constantly there to remind him not to.

You made him stay by your side—but for the good of who? Of what? _A delay in the inevitable?_

“Fragile,” You rasped as she decked you again across the jaw, “Fragile…Fragile…”

Blood dripped from her pale, trembling knuckles, raised to hit you again and probably leave you for dead in the middle of the hallway. You would have granted such a pathetic way to die if it wasn’t for your mind recollecting the blurred outline of Amelie’s truth about you; you were so easy to accept any kind of untimely fate, never thinking of how you wanted to end things according to your terms, showing just how much you were unappreciative of this life. And, in that next instance, Fragile finally halted and regained her sense of clemency when you caught her fist in your hand, the red that obscured her eyes were gone—replaced by lament.

“Fragile…I don’t know—I don’t know where he is,” You dropped your head to the side to spit drool and blood onto the floor, “I begged him— _f-fuck_ —I begged…I _begged_ him to kill m-me. Didn’t…pull through with it, that bast—bastard.”

Fragile shuddered with the weak hiccup jolting out of your chest, followed by the glare faltering when you show her the gush of red and salty tears resting in round shining curves on your cupid’s bow. 

You’re crying. _Holy fuck, **you’re crying.**_

Sweltering moisture drenches the skin on your face, neck, and hands, and you try hopelessly to wipe it off. The blood, the tears, the memories, the agony, the regret, the pain—all of it is just prickling and worming on your skin and it disgusts you. You let out a loud sob, a wail that hasn’t echoed throughout this cursed bunker since your years of infancy—you never cried, you never ever fucking cried. It hurt then and it hurts now. Everything is wet and heavy like tar, coated in this slick mucilage and that gets harder to breathe through, where you border on hyperventilating. Fragile is just out of reach between the phosphenes of black, red, and shards of rainbow-hued light glares, meeting everything and nothing all at once when she slams your head into her chest, cradling you, listening to the hot-breathed screams into her chest just begging for everything to be over.

Everything slows, becomes muffled and shuddering, ghosting over the habits of the past that brings anything but peace on either of you.

* * *

oh my god. oh my god. OH MY GOD. 2 days without updates, only to get hit with some HEAVY shit--yikes? 2 days without uploading was kind of killing me inside, but it was a good suspenseful build-up I suppose. and FINALLY--the scene I've been waiting to write for is finally here. Hopefully you guys liked it, I wrote this in one sitting and yet I have mixed feelings about it. hopefully I did okay.

thank you so much for your patience and support for this story, it means the world [ no seriously, your comments, kudos, and love for this story really gets me screaming every time ] and I can't wait to explore more themeessss....I've planned like 10+ chapters to idea and it was a complete lie when I said mini series apparently, whoops. 

but the suspense is still lingering, oho--just in time for halloween. please enjoy yourselves and remember to stay safe during this especially difficult time during this occasion. 

WEAR YOUR MASKS AND WASH YOUR HANDS. 

much, much love! 


	15. Sohprosyne「15」

## 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭, 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘

_Goddamnit **all.**_

Nothing would ever be the same again, the universe made sure of that. You’ve dragged your feet across this shit-hole of a country for half of your life now, through blood, snow, dirt, sweat, and tar. And you couldn’t even hate that half as much as the other. What life harbored for you—what fate is trying to get you to understand—is that there was nothing for you here; it was time to leave and never look back. Yet you were trapped, laying still under the thumb of your upbringings and couldn’t even push your spine back out once your parents were gone. Now, you were here, laying atop the couch that coddled your aching muscles, leaving you to lick your wounds under Fragile’s watch as she was adamant not to leave your side until you’re healed again. She beat you good, and you felt better about it—but you know it doesn’t change a single thing.

Although Fragile seemed to have abjured that you were an accomplice to Higgs, her abhorrence gleans from the way the gauze is coiled around your neck, wrapped tightly to the point where it was nearly strangling you. She also manages to rip apart a few rolls to shreds while tending to her knuckles, and smartly, you stay silent through it all. Maybe this was life’s funny way of showing you what a dick you were when Higgs was under your care, but your spurn towards any and all rumination about him. It always ended with the idea that he deserved everything that came to him in a heartbeat, one life could justify thousands, and you wish that it could’ve been his own. As Fragile sat by your side, it only now just dawned on you how incredibly lucky you were; Higgs didn’t make an ass or an example out of you, he let you keep your dignity by finally leaving you alone—he didn’t need to get his hands dirty to create chaos.

_Fuck_ , you thought, _am I completely in the wrong here?_

Having an astute eye in seeing the mental dilemma, however, seems to have been lost on Fragile these past few hours. She had just witnessed that you’re not as callous and indifferent as you perceived to be, and honestly, she doesn’t know how to confront you about it—that much you can see. Her fingers laced tightly, folded over her lap while slumped over the dining room table, unable to meet with your gaze whilst you lay stiffly on the couch. You could feel the resentment, taste the ire in the air that brought a shock of ozone in your lungs when you attempted to make a haphazard conversation. And yet, despite her own hoarse throat, you’re met with your first question first.

“Did you even try to contact me?” 

Now, already, that sent your mind spiraling down the chain of events, scouring for any figment of a memory that involved the commitment to a promise and urgency to Fragile. And unsurprisingly, you found no such thing. You didn’t contact her—you chose to break a sweat over Higgs’ fucking messes instead. You chose the terrorist over a good person.

“No,” You answered, surely allaying Fragile’s hopes in what moral bone that you had left, “I wanted to. I really, really did. But every time I was caught up in his mess…I made him my first priority.”

Fragile pursed her lips with a firm nod—she already knew that part—and finally met your contrite eyes, sharp and piercing, “Higgs is a murderer, do you not understand that at all? He’s hurt people, killed millions of lives and somehow, you think it’s okay for you to help him after he gets a small scrape on his knee?”

“He is a repatriate,” You reveal through a clenched jaw, “I understood that nothing would’ve changed if I didn’t help him. I just…I just wanted him off my back.”

“Then why didn’t you try to contact me!?”

“Because I would’ve been alone, Fragile!”

You _are_ alone.

What other reason could you hold onto to stay alive if you had to put up with another decade of silence? You hated the sound of your own breathing, the sound of deafening silence that you tried to ignore by looking out the window and just praying for that destructive rain. It was with Higgs that you found the notion of living for someone—keeping them out of trouble— _terrifyingly_ comforting. You had a job to do, lives to protect—and yet, here you were, receiving shit for it.

You tried not to show your anger through clenched hands or burst out in hurtful words, being compliant on your own terms sounded like the right thing to do than get bit in the ass for it, for once. Fragile leaned upright against the chair, her expression falling open to release an offended scoff. It wasn’t a verbal response, but somehow it was enough for you, your tongue rolling along the row of bared piercing teeth—like fangs.

“I didn’t know if you were in the central region, the west, or east…or fuck—I don’t know, _dead?_ I get that he’s a terrorist and—and he’s the worst fucking person to be patching up but…I didn’t want to have other people getting involved and being leverage.”

Fragile switched the sides of her grinding jaw, hardened, glossy eyes shoving downward as she was failing to understand your candor reasons. She evinced her frustrations by pounding the end of her fist into the table, rattling the med-kit, the empty cans of beer, and her own shoulders that went rigid and rolled under her leather jacket—you thought for a second that the circular puffs spiked. You flinched upon the reverberations of the impact, your hand flying towards your side with your nails digging into the bruised flesh. How she could handle the brutality of her outrage with the condition she was in?

“People are already dead,” Fragile reminds you, where bitter smoky memories invaded every crevice of your thoughts, “Just looking at him was enough for an entire city to burn.”

You pressed your knees to your chest, swollen fingers picking at the skin over your knuckles that was rimmed with a sangria-colored bruise, “Higgs wouldn’t have been put down so easily, Fragile…he’s a repatriate. That’s the whole reason why I didn’t—why I _couldn’t_ do anything. He would’ve just kept coming back.”

_You could’ve just thrown him out into the snow_ , a voice echoed in the back of your head, and Fragile looked like she agreed with it, too.

Slipping in and out of the Seam didn’t seem like a viable dying method, not then and not now. Yes, he would’ve been stuck in a loop and rendered unable to catch a break—but could you really have been able to do such a thing? Higgs repaid his debt to you; he saved your life from the hands of the stranger and spared you both a painless and painful death—if he was willing to do it, even on a whim, then why couldn’t you? He _was_ capable of saving someone, and it wasn’t just because he had use for you; he found you amusing—whatever that meant anymore—he wanted you to live for him. Yet, you knew that such a thing wasn’t justifiable for the other heinous things he’d done. The guilt of past sins crawls up the walls of your dried throat, seeking to justify yourself for saving Higgs, but you know that it isn’t what Fragile needs to hear; she needs closure.

“What do you plan to do now, then?” Fragile asks, finally looking at you, already apprehending her worst assumptions. 

You answer easily, “I’m leaving.”

Somehow, that was enough for Fragile. There was a short duration of calm silence, the both of your heads reeling and taking in such a vague yet telling answer. There were no follow-up questions, no exchanged glances of incredulous devastation. Just that fucking silence. Finally, Fragile excused herself and mumbled a half-hearted goodbye. There were no other words to be said; there had been enough emotions sparred in the most piteous of ways, saving face would just save time. You don’t know what angered you more—the silence after Fragile chiral jumped out of the bunker or the fact that it was so easy for her to leave you alone again—either way, you grabbed the nearest thing your hand touched when you flung it back, hurling it into the wall where the piercing sound of glass sprayed and clattered onto the tiled-floors. Delicate shards of iridescent lights were caught in the bleariness of your eyes once more, and finding the mound of soil on these pristine floors made a cry rip from your throat.

Tuberose filled your nose, and the smell was **_overwhelming_**.

Your hands were red, patches of skin peeled raw over your palms whilst your trembling fingers couldn’t take the weight of your own blood trickling down to your elbows. Every minuscule of an effort into keeping you awake were in your legs, stability anchored down to your kneecaps as they dug into the floor, rimmed in round shapes with a grotesque violet and red. Through heavy eyelids, you’re able to peel back each memory of utter chaos that you have unleashed upon this hell-hole of a bunker, remembering the feel of clashing metal and broken things impacted on various spots of your body, and breathed through the angry copper with flaring nostrils. The stench of tuberose, you couldn’t be rid of it no matter how hard you tried— _you couldn’t get rid of the sense of him_ —but you most certainly _did try._

The bloodied couch was ripped to shreds by your nails. They were always kept short, a plausible feat for climbing during deliveries, but now they were rendered into diminutive pink, scraped nail beds that no longer had any free edges. The pointed hanging skins were caught with some tuffs of grating cotton and lints of fabric, stained with crusted brown and red. The pinching ache in the balls of your heel worsened when it smashed through the newsfeed projector, but you savored the second burst of pain when you put it through the glass window frame.

You ripped, teared, shredded, smashed, broke, and demolished everything you could get your hands on. And it still wasn’t enough. Shotgun shells, rusted knives, wilting flowers, and the stench of destruction just _wasn’t_ enough. The bunker, your home, the loving place you remembered being a haven from this exhausting, pitiful country was torn down, too. What would your parents think? 

_What would your sibling think if they ever came here?_

Another scream, another cry unleashing throughout the shabby confinements of the punched-in walls. The back of your tongue muscled through the stale air of the bunker before you swiftly reached for another full canister of beer tucked under the cupboards, the good stuff. _The real good stuff_. You hoped that it’d be good enough to make you forget everything you’d done. In two eager gulps, your thirst through the bubbling bile and froth were finally silenced, and an idea spiked in the innards of your darker thoughts that weren’t blocked out by the light of decency. 

Your body shivered as it stretched across the floor, the hair over your eyes obscuring the way you reached for the stray knife—somewhat uncaring towards if you held it by the blade. The knife wasn’t the only thing in your hands but pure ire, suppressed raw anger that was resilient against the voices of reason in the back of your head trying to stop you from reaching your bedroom and tearing open the box of memories, dragging it outside with the half-empty canister and dousing it in the middle of the terminal. 

Pungent, liquid amber soiled the polaroids and yellowing pages of the treasured album, drenched the few trinkets and toys that were kept as memoirs for your parents to reminisce on. It wasn’t especially hard finding a lighter in the house—your father was a recovering smoker and did indulge on his suffocating habits often—and it wasn’t at all a grueling task for you to burn it all down with a single waver and roll of your fingers. The darkness in your periphery, the shadows that haunted the remnants of your peace were finally getting darker, and the scarlet and yellows grew brighter.

_“Little bird,”_ You called to yourself with a choked, quivering voice, watching the edges of the album’s hard-cover blacken into char, “Little bird. Little bird. _Little bird. Little bird—Little…”_

The fire grew larger, plumes of soft smoke and steam made the water in your eyes swelter and bring you down to your knees again. The rancor seemed to be too much for even yourself to endure until the end. Tentative colors mixed with the memories of yesterday and the day before, following whatever vivid trace you could think of next that you can continue to be incensed for. You can’t discern what was happening, but you didn’t fear that this time, Amelie might be calling you to the Beach. If Higgs couldn’t put you out of your misery, or Fragile, or Lockne, or BRIDGES, then maybe the _sweet fucking angel of death herself_ can do something. The thought was just a passing phase, apparently, a coveted excuse of exhaustion. Letting the past fall into flames finally put the stench of tuberose to rest, replaced by the crisp odor of burning. 

_Fuck this_ , you thought.

_You’re done._

You watched the snowfall inside the terminal until you gave into slumber, curled up by the fire. 

The mountains were moved by much more than erosions.

Eluding wasn’t a voracious activity that happened around the northwest central region, but one did keep a fervent eye out. Your hopes were aimed more on the ridges of the darker mountains that didn’t have a sleet of snow caked at the crest. There were drier and much gloomier rolling atmospheric travesties that made a cold sweat run down the length of your neck. It took you half of the morning and a quarter of the afternoon to finally reach the incline. The gloves alone weren’t enough to protect you from the scraping rocks that brought a grating friction against your raw patches, and by the time you reached the final hill that took your sights directed to the Waystation North of Mountain Knot, everything was sore. Not many people were around here nor have crossed your path today, they must be excited or worried about the new changes added after the chiral network sparked back up again; more deliveries and more business meant less time. 

What laid out before you and had been more ominous that the billow of dark grey storm clouds was the tremendous stretch of the mountain’s shadows. The veil over your eyes was like being shielded by something bright, but you found no speck or sliver of the sun peeking. Hardly any movement came into your line of view, and it was an unexpectedly nice atmosphere to trek through. The wind was picking up, working in tandem with the whimsical change in your mood once you saw the pointed roof of the Waystation. A good night’s sleep might completely turn things around. 

You wished you could convince the knot in your stomach otherwise.

The entrance to the terminal, however, was staggeringly different from the calming outside. A half-hearted attempt to merge with the crowd frantically bustling throughout the Waystation already sent you wheezing half-way to the terminal. They were shouting, mumbling an incoherent jumble of words and such brushing and rough shoves of contact just made every sense in your body worse. You reached the terminal and were placed on the lowering platform with a dozen others, bringing a hand to your ear as the vehement words of a few other BRIDGES members became angrier and louder for some reason, but you didn’t give a fuck about any of them.

The night that had come to pass was anything but a leisurely process. A shower was very much needed, maybe even more so than sleep. Peeling back the layers of clothing was difficult, even without the burden of cargo slung over your shoulders and back. You were still overwhelmingly stiff to the instinctual routines that often never finished with a visit to places like this, the end of the journey would still have you moving. So, more or less, you took these last few virtues of America a little for granted. The amount of hot water you had used before bed was insulting, and you didn’t care if you had used all the facility’s hot water and got filed with a complaint. You’re leaving these bitches, anyway, it was a waste of time arguing about it. 

Over your head, the occasional intercom messages provided by the BRIDGES staff was more pleasant than falling asleep to the dreadful silence. Your body didn’t even have enough energy to toss and turn your head over your pillow, the sweltering heat of your recent wounds and damp skin was a formality you put up with under the weight of a cotton-knit blanket. The journey up the mountains would have you begging for this kind of heat later, it was best to enjoy the unpleasantries now before something worse arose during your journey.

If you fell off the mountain or drowned in tar, it wouldn’t necessarily be considered as an unpleasantry either. 

You’re awfully shocked that despite how heavy your eyes were as they closed to slumber, they fluttered rapidly awake on the Beach.

The edge of silver foam and drab seawater bordered on the end of your periphery, carcasses of marine life at your sides came with a repugnant odor that made your face pinch and crinkle. You’re already thigh-deep inside this hellish sea, but strangely, you don’t come out of the water as quick as you initially hoped. The sand and gravel feel softer beneath the swollen balls of your heels, and each step you take is a task all on its own. It’s like you wanted yourself to sink, hoping that whatever was below this nightmares might take you somewhere else entirely or back to reality. Great cascading waves threaten to plummet your balance and weight. The rush of terribly frigid water upon your ardent skin is excruciating and a short hiccup flies from your chest when you stumble to drier land on your bruised knees.

When you crane your head to the ashen sky, the stranger is waiting there for you. As a classic feat, you can’t perceive a single emotion. Anything that you’ve ever discerned from this maniac was either enigmatic or intimidating. You can’t pick apart movements or ambience as easily as you could with Higgs. You had no words to say to them except to question why they were after you in the first place, even if Amelie saw you as part of the ‘ _truth_ ’—but you know for certain that you won’t get an answer. They haven’t spoken before, what makes you think they’ll start answering things now? 

The stranger beckons you with an outstretched, tightened hand. The gap between the end of their long-sleeve and the hem of their glove reveals the patch of wrinkled, raw, and scarred skin, and the cling to the hopes that you would quickly wake up from this visit was beginning to slip from your fingers. The stranger just kept staring ahead— _at you_ —waiting for you to shorten this safe proximity. Your neck shifted and crackled under the familiar pressure of their power, remembering the way your spine writhed under their forceful magnetism. The exertion from their hand, this time, wasn’t coaxed in DOOMs—at least you had hoped. Your steps were tentative, balky on the sand you had hoped to slip in before you reached them.

“Do what you gotta do, just make it quick,” You sigh, quirking a brow upward as you take a scan at their helmet, “What are you? An edgy Luden? _No, wait_ —don’t tell me. You’re off-brand Darth Vader in another life?” 

You _swear_ you heard a sigh. 

The stranger unclenched their fist and pried their palm open, revealing a ring. Truthfully, you expected some kind of detonator that could end everything without a single moment of comprehension. A coral blue center stone, fashioned on a silver white band. The color had a sense of despair, a sadness; the color of what the sky should have been. Not this somber pale bleakness. With reluctant hands, you took the ring gently, cradling and rolling it in different angles. It hardly dazzled in the light of the concealed sun, it didn’t wink iridescent streaks against your eyes but there was not a coaxing of unpolished dullness to it. The ring seemed unfathomably important— _an heirloom, perhaps_ —but you wondered why the stranger had given you such a thing.

“Dude, we literally just met. I’m not marrying psychos anymore.” Your slapstick judgement elicits no real reaction from them, but another gestured hand towards the horizon, and you freeze.

There is a figure standing on the shore. At first, you thought that it was your parent—your mom or dad, you didn’t know. You knew that either of those saccharine smiles would have made the fatigue and stress come out of your mouth in a vile puddle. Yet, you managed to white-knuckle through the sight of Amelie. _As beautiful and bitchy as ever_ , you think with a stifled groan, begrudgingly removing yourself from the stranger to meet her at the beginning of the sea. The foam didn’t touch her heels, if anything, it moved _around_ her. While your feet lapped against suds and revolting whites, you clenched your fist down to refrain from socking Amelie in the jaw.

“You know, for the entity who’s supposed to bring the end of the world, you just don’t know when to quit. Do you?”

Amelie chuckled— _she fucking chuckled_ —and turned her head towards the horizon, her shoulder-length blonde hair floating, as if it didn’t sway with the breeze, “You’re bold. Like I said, that’s a good thing. The world doesn’t act on boldness often, boldness is _honesty_ , after all. It shows resilience in humans.”

A frown slants across your bruised lips, “Do you think we’ll have enough resilience to stop what you want?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Amelie sighs gently, turning back to you and offering to hold your hands—smartly, you don’t accept, “It’s just my purpose. My reason for being. Isn’t all life made the same way? We don’t ask to be born, we don’t choose our purpose. It just…happens. It’s the natural order of life,”

You don’t know why, but you believe in her. You just don’t trust her words.

“And all life must come to an end.”

The memory of your last visit once again swarms every crevice of your mind. It’s hard enough to accept the fact that you were now at the last moments on earth’s timer. No matter what you do, according to these bastards who have inserted themselves into your lives, everything is pointless. The end will still be there, whether if it was delayed or fast-forwarded, the end of every minuscule part of life was near. Mortal or EE, as Higgs said. You were fairly surprised to realize that you haven’t thought about him often during your journey. But you didn’t thank his words that heightened your distress on the revelation.

The silence was doing things to you, returning you to the husk of the indifferent person you once were perceived to be. It made you sick. Amelie didn’t care, you think, as long as something happened to this world, it didn’t matter how humans felt about the chain of events lying in wait. That much was clear as she expressed her univocal thoughts through emotionless tears. If you squinted, you could’ve sworn there were increments of red there.

That detail scares you.

“You’re at the precipice of a new beginning,” Amelie smiles through her sadness, and you cannot help but offer the ghost of one back, “It will be frightful, I know. But the effort isn’t worth wasting.”

A hard crease in your feature makes her smile falter, “I’m leaving America, haven’t you noticed? I don’t plan wasting another second here. Why do you think I left the bunker?”

Finally, you’ve managed to silence Amelie. You can feel her disappointment. You were flying away from America, from her. From Higgs. No matter how much she tried to convince you otherwise, dressed up the facts with pristine words coated in a venomous sugar, she intended to keep you fighting here in America. You were intent on flying from the cage. _The golden cage._

_Why did you…leave the bunker?_

“I thought you just wanted to get away from me.”

_For fuck’s sake…_

Turning around, a weak call claws out of your throat, _**“Higgs?”**_

Colors. _He’s all_ — _they’re_ _all_ _colors_. 

You wake up on the floor.

Yet, before you have just another chance of receiving the burdens from your shoulders; you’re ripped away back into reality. The concrete floor of the private room is relentlessly cold and you kick yourself upwards from the powerfully chilling sensations that pressed against your bare skin.

Your hand falls over your damped eyelids. Only then do you realize it’s terribly clenched—knuckles white and red, brimmed with the glimmer of something shiny reflecting off the room’s dim lighting. It’s the ring, shining and winking at you from even the slightest speck of illumination. 

_That…that can’t be._

You don’t let go of it when you wipe your face again, ruminating the idea that there wouldn’t be slick waters but blackened tar. Every attempt to rub the memories and tears out of your eyes is futile, they just keep coming, dripping, soaking, seeping salt into the wounds caused by sweeter misery. Every burning question that comes to mind is not without the absence of hope. No one was holding you back. 

_That much was true, wasn’t it?_

Everyone you had ever met never stayed too long. Higgs was no different.

_Wait_ , you think, _why would I think about Higgs?_

At the end of morning, you’re finally finished taking in the view of the first mountain. The incline was enormous, and it sent your mind through a whimsical sense of nostalgia. The first mountain you ever conquered was the farthest peak outside your bunker. Your parents were livid, and maybe that was the pure drive that made you want to be a porter. The exhilarating thrill of adventure, with the bonus blessing of someone else’s gratitude was all you ever wanted and nearly died over, and you would die a million times over to feel that way again. 

You don’t know what’s over this next range, the uncharted edges of the map were purely black based on your cufflinks, and you’re certain that they would be useless should you take just one more step. Somehow, you think stealing a floating courier wasn’t such a good idea anymore. Ardent rushes of encouragement came to your puffed chest once the veil of shadows left your eyes. The weather was considerably well, you wouldn’t have to face any atmospheric hardships until two days, you estimated. Though the positive thoughts that were jumbled and tearing over the focus in your mind instead honed on the shakiness in your legs. 

_“You can do this…you can do this.”_ Any semblance of hope you had left were finally coming out through ridiculous hoarse chants.

Who the fuck would stop you? Nobody, only yourself. Get moving!

You didn’t have anything more to say to this country. You casted all of your childish past hopes, dreams, goodbyes, and thanks into the fire that turned the memories into unrecognizable chunks of ash and char. The only thing that you could think of that was keeping you from moving was the connections you made; Fragile, Lockne, Heartman, Mama, even Higgs—even if they all hated you in the end. When you repeated the word _hate_ , it didn’t fall too far from the tree. It made you finally move, for god’s sake, and the higher you climbed the more you remembered how much resentment you carried. The weight on your shoulders peeled off into the snow, one by one. And soon, it felt like you were just doing a regular job.

The dull roar of the mountains sang a strong tune. An echo that drummed and bounced off of these rocky peaks made you think that they were only caused by recent erosions. The tar belt, you wonder if there was one this far ahead. You don’t think that even Amelie would bother to create one, or Higgs, no one thought of leaving the ‘ _safety_ ’ and ‘ _comfort_ ’ of the land of America—it was anyone ever knew. The possibilities of BTs were a prominent reminder echoing throughout your head. You feared the possibility that your odradek wouldn’t respond this far out into the mountains, but you switched it on anyway. Something was better than nothing.

Animals were a charming thought to keep you occupied. You hadn’t seen or crossed paths with any birds or deer for a few months, and you desperately hoped that they hadn’t gone extinct due to timefall. Your father remarked that animals were capable of sensing every change in the environment, including the weather. It was essential to their survival, but he didn’t seem to be fully convinced in the longevity of wildlife. You didn’t either; _why couldn’t humans adapt the same way?_ The hope lingering in the air heightened at the possibility of coming across something non-sentient. You didn’t wanna have to deal with another murderous psycho or egotistical idiot. 

That was your purpose for coming here after all, and Amelie couldn’t decide anything otherwise for you.

The pinnacle of sunset. It was harsh on your eyes but the biting cold was harsher. When you finally reached the peak of the mountain, it took you a full minute to gather your surroundings. A long over-due smile broke across your cheeks, a new tear trickled down the apple of your flushed cheek when the sight of mountain ranges were painted with amber and gold. Millions of painted light streaks stretched and elongated from the scorching horizon, and it was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. Not in this life. A single thought shaped into hope that maybe you’d see this sight forever in whatever comes after.

Thorny bushes and scrub grass were visible by their glistening reflections of leaves and greenery, resting at the flattened descent of the mountain. Effulgent arrows bounced from each snowcap, reaching to you, as if to illuminate the path waiting for you after your next step. Your chiral boots were faring well, but you decided to settle in this new scenery properly with a rest. There weren’t any trees, unfortunately, but you found that settling in the nearest cave would fare better than anything. Your eyes follow the length of the mountain, and you estimate how good your landing will be once the ride down on the courier was going to be.

Riding these things was a small skill you developed as a resident of Mountain Knot. But into the parts of the unknown where death could be waiting for you at any turn? _Absolutely_. It was now or never. You climbed up on the courier and took a deep breath. Nostalgia and childhood bravery overlooked cowardice and needless safety. The great kick to send you barreling down the mountain slope nearly winded you, but you focused on your quivering balance instead. The ground beneath your feet was shrinking at the edges of your periphery, snow sprinkling over your eyes with a bitter lash of frigid chills. The mountains were becoming taller, bigger, and less feeble. The horizon itself wasn’t able to make your neck snap backwards in whiplash. It didn’t worsen what you already had, shockingly. Enthusiasm escaped your lips in a breathless yelp, the wind in your hair flailing the faster you slid. 

“Holy shit. Holy _shit_. _Holy shit!_ **_Holy shit!_** _”_

_Yeah, it’s been a while._

Maybe that’s the reason why you flew off of the envoy after trying to drift. _Totally_ not because you missed your footing and slipped forward, rolling into the snow at about sixty miles per hour at fucking three hundred feet on the mountain. _No, no way!_ God, you can’t believe this. _If this doesn’t kill me_ , you think right before your temple hits a mid-sized stone, _I’ll do it myself._ The tuffs of weeds and dry grass under your palms made you dry heave at the stale stench. You’re here, you made it. But goddamn, does it fucking hurt. Darkness takes you first than the remnants of the freezing cold on your legs, thankfully, coated in places that are highly excruciating had you been able to stay awake. Instead, the taste of copper is the final sense that sends your eyes reeling back into a state of unconsciousness. The memory of blood on snow is your last thought before you collapse; and that time, you truly feared the dreams again.

_“What the fuck?”_

The sound of a gun and an unfamiliar voice wakes you from a dream of fire.

* * *

**AHHHHHHHH--8 DAYS WITHOUT A CHAPTER. A NEW TERRIBLE RECORD JESUS.** I tried really hard to write and get this chapter out as soon as possible but then I got vertigo and a project that I put off until the last minute. But thank you, thank you so much for your patience. This chapter is a wild rollercoaster of emotions. we're finally getting into some heavy plot stuff, lmao. truthfully, I'm not fond of this chapter but we've left the bunker! 

btw, if you haven't already heard, I've got a [discord](https://discord.gg/ExfvEQTebZ) up and running so if you wanna talk and chat there about our boy higgs, know when the next update is or how everything is going [or even wanna share some memes and meet new people] then feel free to join! There's a lot of lovely people on there, they're so great!

also, big, BIG THANK YOU TO desertvvitch , again. HOLY HELL. this absolutely beautiful soul has been helping me with the writing process of this story and I cannot fathom how grateful I am. I PROMISE UPDATES WILL BE MORE CONSISTENT [ most likely not daily anymore ]. 

much, much love!

**HAPPY 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO DEATH STRANDING!**


	16. Saudade「16」

## 𝐖𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐘𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲

_What a goddamn **moron**._

Higgs was afraid that he was calling himself that or you. The particle of god that permeated all of existence didn’t fall short of being a dunce at times, _no_ , more often recently was he caught up in certain dilemmas that required a furrow in his brow or a restless night of rumination. Either way, the two of you had gone off the deep-end because of your grievances about each other. He stared you down as you did with him, and there was no possibility in sight where the two of you would sleep in each other’s arms again peacefully. Such intimacy was brought upon by the trail of tragedy, but not this time, it seemed.

Cerulean against blazing shadows. These colors made his focus falter as he tried to discern what could have been racing through your head once he found you uprooting yourself from his monitor. Truthfully, he half-expected that you had begun your journey back to your bunker in Mountain Knot, that sad little hole in the ground. Your many years in that pit of misfortune between his own was inextricable, what he used to have under that steel sky made his stomach churn and kindle a curiosity for you that he wouldn’t have with just anyone else on this miserable planet. He had grown accustomed with your presence, but you have snapped his patience for the first time. And truthfully, he _didn’t_ know what the fuck to do. 

Your words. You always had a way with them, a certain way that brought challenge and hilarity to his apathetic heart. The bickers and banter exchanged for these past few months was a new thing for him, where he assumed that you would just be another victim waiting to be twisted. But you insulted him. Not just for the eyebrows, no, you were indifferent with him. Ire truly burned behind those storm-brewed irises, and the muscles in his cheeks shifted with his hardening jaw. He had the decency to be worried, for the first time— _in what was probably years_ —worried about himself around you. 

Everything about you made Higgs stir. Your words were no different.

“Looks like daddy didn’t beat your fingers in hard enough to pull the trigger.”

Now, that was a blow below the belt. It was only under a vague yet portent mention that he ever mentioned his daddy to you. What misery Higgs had become exposed to at such a young age, just for asking questions, was beginning to come back. Now that you were, too, there was a sense of dignity that he wanted to keep for the sake of being the herald of death— _the particle of God_. Maybe that’s what his daddy felt like, too. Maybe Higgs was just trying to protect you in his own way, like his daddy. That fucking bastard. But he stiffened his upper lip and tightened his gloved hand. It felt empty. It felt _weak_. It was so fucking painful.

He didn’t expect this. _No_. This bravado that you both fronted was finally beginning to peel back and Higgs wasn’t ready at all. He had just gotten back from Port Knot, giving hell to Sam Porter Bridges who had connected that goddamn chiral network to the east. _Crazy fucking bastard_ , there was no way Amelie had any true faith in that guy; not like him. It wasn’t like you had any in him either, the way Amelie had summoned him to her Beach with a light of indifference in her eyes. Though the smile was thin and soft, the billowing storm rolled closer upon the edge of the sea, and Higgs knew something was wrong; **_you_** had done something wrong.

_“She knows,”_ Higgs remembered the way his heart dropped when Amelie finally broke the deafening silence, _“You took your eye away from her for one second, and now she knows the meaning of this life.”_

Honestly, Higgs expected that you would take the revelation with only a bitter frown, not with the resilient anger that shone out of you now, _“I was sloppy—“_

_“— **We** were sloppy,”_ Amelie corrects—Higgs didn’t miss that molecular waver of disappointment in her tone, _“Now, **I** have to go the extra mile here in making sure her silence is kept. Go to her first, Higgs. She knows you.”_

_“That doesn’t mean she trusts me.”_

Amelie smiles at the clouds that flash white and cracks with the splitting lightning, _“My agent of extinction…a sufferer beyond comparison against the likes of an uninterested face of humanity. Something can be done. Maybe for the good of this volatile future.”_

For the first time, Higgs had doubted the Extinction Entity. 

The feeling wasn’t completely different from when Amelie first spoke of her half-brother, Sam Porter Bridges. She lamented so _fondly_ of him, and Higgs spites the likes of hope-filled porter, he had seen too many and almost fell into that arduous route of life back in his younger years; before he had realized his true purpose. Amelie reiterated your words, played them out in a corporeal form on these cursed sands. You were on your knees, just you and Amelie, glaring up at her with those lively ardent eyes that he’d grown to enjoy inflaming. You didn’t care, _of course you didn’t._

Your words to her were no different to him, if not worse. Higgs didn’t know if he could forgive you for that. And he let you go when he couldn’t make up his mind. The jolt in his creaking elbow created a jump that vanished you from the confinements of the bunker. There was nothing left of your lingering presence than your scent. It filled every nook and cranny of this damned place, coating everything that he owned that he found in different places that he didn’t leave them in before. You moved things; you were looking through his things. _Little bird, **why?**_ The books were stacked now, not lapped lazily over each other, creased by corners, and left open, no, they were put into neat stacks lined up against the wall to compensate for a bookshelf. The style— _the riddance of his system_ —made his heart thrum.

The monitor was left open, glaring in pristine hues of the journal entry he jotted down before he left for Port Knot. He was careless at times, maybe this was his own fault. He set your daddy’s gun down onto his desk, a good distance away from his elbow as his arms came forward to check on the other journal entries with a few taps in the keyboard. You hadn’t opened any more of them, good. He doesn’t know how he would’ve responded if you had thrown the word ‘ _murderer_ ’ around with an entirely new meaning. Higgs sunk down into the chair and put his head in his hands.

“Fuck…” He mumbled with a slight shudder in his sigh, “Fuck. _Fuck!”_

He remembered the way he acted, how unsettled he was with you.

_Why?_

Higgs abjured the possibility of you actually instilling fear in him. If such a thing were true, he would’ve actually stopped you from shooting him. Your daddy’s gun— _a Desert Eagle_ —was heavy in his hands. He had handled his fair share of assault rifles and other assorted heavy firearms, but the effort it took was somehow tiring his strength. The metal gave a light click against the golden plating on his gloves. It was a bit smudged, hardly used. And yet, you didn’t hold back on using it on him. It didn’t miss. 

“So, this is your baggage.” 

The tribulation in the shape of a gun unnerved him. Higgs’ mouth slanted into a frown, the millstone of you keeping him from causing any more trouble in your life was already failing. The ruinous motions caused you to end up here in the first place, close to him. Maybe this little gun was the thing that kept you from being free from that. You could have shot him, but why recreate a heinous act that made you miss on purpose in the first place? The wound you never talked about, he wanted to act on that morbid curiosity as he so often did, but grimaced now that he would have to do his own digging. Knowing that your daddy shot you by the smell of familiar gunpowder wasn’t enough to satisfy him alone. He wanted your misery. Your pain. You’ve enthralled him enough already, but his resentment was getting in the way of thinking rationally.

_You’re gone_. It’s over. You’ve flown out of the cuckoo’s nest for good and you didn’t intend on coming back. Not even for the sake of humanity. Peace was all you wanted, what Higgs was so hellbent on to destroy. Saying you wanted none of it phrased in a few colorful words wasn’t enough for him, but it certainly was for you. Higgs sighed and craned his head up to the ceiling, the steel sky was dark now, light dancing from the thunderstorm raging outside. Timefall was imminent now around these parts, thanks to him, and he considered himself lucky that he didn’t have to deal with this newfound silence alone. The things he hated lashed for him. And now, Higgs was free.

Amelie would’ve never agreed to you, anyway.

Amelie. Amelie. _Fucking_ Amelie. Higgs snarled deeply as he swiveled around from the chair, glaring at the incessant darkness that was keeping him from seeing anything clearly. It makes him stumble around the spacious floor that he once adapted to weave over through his expanse of littered books. He destroyed your presence, he tore and ripped apart any trace of you ever being next to him, waiting for him to get back. Higgs’ boot struck and trampled over his hard-covers and paper-backs in a fit of rage. His nose crinkled at the waft of your scent and lignin; an amalgam of _you_ , ultimately. Higgs’ lips reveal similar cursing utterances that he had thrown at you once you had gotten on his nerves, remembering every phrase as he held you up to the ceiling.

He dislodges himself from being in a state of control willfully, pure unbridled fury taking form in every devastation and demolition that he took out on his bunker. He fights the fidgeting and shudders crawling up his spine, yearning for a heat that could prove much more useful than his cloak that he rips off of his shoulders. _Why?_ _Why the fuck— **Why!?**_ Why didn’t he follow through with killing you? Why didn’t he save face and let you burn with the rest in Middle Knot? Why did he save you from that extra scrap of injury when that unknown bastard tried to kill you?

Higgs doesn’t understand. He can’t understand what he doesn’t know. It makes him sick. It angers him. Why can’t he understand you, yet? Who are you? ’ _You are a lie, Higgs_ ’ What the fuck does that mean!? Higgs had shown what anyone couldn’t handle to you, and only you. Resentment is fueled into that last kick that sends a closet toppling over and slamming down in front of the door, and he is left breathless and heaving from the effort. You are callous and indifferent, yet merciful in your own way. His fluttering, rigid flesh brightens in a red glow when he remembers being under your care. Caustic, exasperated, dutiful, and reserved; **you** and _your_ way with him. 

You know everything, and he knows nothing. You know nothing, and he knows everything. This brutal duality— _oh, how the tables have turned._

In the end, at what seemed to be the end of the storm, Higgs slumped down atop the mess of his own making. Chaos pooled around his feet in shreds of wood, shredded paper, and a… _photograph?_ A turned over trash bin—an empty one, he didn’t use it often—rested beside the foxing of his scuffed boots. It was a polaroid, a frame that he was saving to capture the likes of Sam Porter Bridges and begin tracking his motions of change once he reached the central region. He just didn’t expect to find your smiling face at the start of his collection. Your gleaming, gentler eyes were lightened by the camera’s flash, your smile showing pearly teeth that indicated you seemed to be enjoying yourself while rooting through his things. He almost chuckled to himself, of course you were. 

Your smile matched with his for a moment. The upturned curl was just one of the few rare expressions that glistened a certain sense of peace that the terrorist knew how to show freely. He is a man with a great burden, and he was ultimately glad to see such an endearing face you had never shown him; a rare preening to your feathers. With a slow hand, he peeled off his gloves and traced the rise in your smile. And yet, his own is short-lived when he realizes that the photograph had fallen from the trash bin. You didn’t want him to find this. You didn’t want him seeing such an expression that he could easily twist and break under his classic demeanor and such hurtful methods he was capable of. Higgs stifled a sigh, he wouldn’t…no. _No— **yes** , he would._

You hid a lot of things from him, and frustration towards that fact burned in his chest. You hid this from him; your smile. Now, that was cruel. Towards him and you. Higgs made the decision to pocket the photograph with great reluctance. He chose to visit the Beach, Amelie’s beach. In a single chiral jump, Higgs was taken from the confinements of his destroyed bunker and onto the rolling shores of this awful limbo.

Amelie was already waiting for him. _Big surprise._

As the Extinction Entity, Amelie Strand certainly did look the part. Her hair was always kept neat and still, unmoved by the harsh sea breeze that always came with a biting cold on Higgs’ cheeks. A perfect blue in those irises, as bright as the sky shown in old pictures that Higgs once dreamed to bask in for once on this hellish Earth. Higgs was greeted by those wrinkling eyes, her smile following with a sense of dangerous curiosity. She coddled him once, gave him a sense of direction that came with some scrap of affection in her words. Amelie wasn’t a human being, at least, _not anymore_. As she refuted once during their last meeting, that she was the Beach itself, the thought made Higgs’ nerves twist in his chest.

“You two are so alike.” It wasn’t a proper greeting, but it certainly did spark a nerve wracking response from him—the start of a long-overdue conversation.

“Is Sam Bridges dead, yet?” Higgs doesn’t miss the slight twitch in her brow.

Amelie shakes her head and laments with a weak smile, “He’s leaving from Port Knot, now.”

**_Fragile_**. Higgs’ short spite gives him a moment to reminisce on his own actions. After the negotiation for the safety of South Knot, Higgs fell short of keeping tabs on her, being preoccupied with you and all. After your enraged call about her safety, Higgs found it amusing upon the circumstances that you were working for the person she hated the most. _What a predicament_ , he once thought cruelly. Now, he wasn’t surprised that Fragile abandoned you for Sam, a new route to trek to get her revenge. He hummed sardonically, _good luck with that._

“What will you do next?” Amelie asks, exchanging a genuine look of curiosity and amusement shining through her eyes, an all too familiar mien with Higgs, “Sam is going to reach the central region with Fragile. And I’m sure you want some answers for yourself from me…about _her_.”

Higgs clenches his fist, running his tongue along his row of teeth— _fangs_ , “Where is she?”

Amelie only shrugs—she doesn’t know. _How the **fuck** does she not know?_

_“Amelie—“_

“—She flew,” She sighs, shaking her head, “It’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?”

Only then, after his silence, does Amelie understand, “But it’s not what _you_ wanted, was it?”

Higgs swallowed dryly against this level of perception from Amelie. Being the subject of discernment dismayed him, especially under someone or something like Amelie. Though she appeared to be the epitome of ataraxia here, her senses are sharp, dissecting every bit of his morphing features and pulling him from his forgotten curiosities about you. Why did it matter to her? What would she have to gain with knowing who he’s affiliated with? As long as he got her fucking job done, _right?_

“If she wants to die, then that’s on her,” Higgs utters, shivering slightly when the rush of the sea laps upon his boots, “She’s made that perfectly clear.”

“Could you have done it yourself?” Amelie then asks, turning towards the horizon, as if to search for an end to the billowing clouds, “Like she begged?” 

Higgs leaves the Beach, leaving her unanswered. But deep down, he knows she’s satisfied. 

God fucking dammit. _Why do you have to make this so hard for him?_

If Amelie didn’t know where you were, or if she was just keeping your location from him just for the sake of being cryptic, the crushing weight on Higgs’ shoulders lugged. This is getting old. Even though it was a pretty new experience, it was fucking _exhausting_. Outrageously, Higgs decided to act on new aspirations for a moment’s peace and quiet. Such a desire never dwindled throughout his head often, being so caught up with nuking cities and killing people, so the thought of deciding to walk a few ways towards your bunker rather than doing a mighty chiral jump was heavily disinclined, at first. He left his confinements in a huff, the stench of his blood, musty iron, and your natural scent was becoming excruciating. 

Higgs’ journey around the fringes of what was left of Middle Knot made his odradek flicker annoyingly over his shoulder. His BB, this creepy fucking thing, wasn’t helping at all. It was stupid to switch it off, but for some reason, it was downright demeaning for Higgs to go back so quickly on his words. His steps were hard against the earth, but the hammering in his chest was harder. These dilemmas, all these conflicting emotions that he had suffocated you with, was this how it was like for you all the time since meeting him?

_No_ , he thinks, _things hardly seemed different when you were alone_. In that bunker, picking that gun from above the light at the entrance was a telltale sign that you were living under the thumb of fear— _like what daddy said_. Your daddy and his wasn’t entirely different. You didn’t exhibit the marks or shame of a parent’s malevolence on your skin, not as far as he’d seen. You were quick to obscure anything faults under a fern-green hot spring. He didn’t strip you bare when you’d fallen asleep by his side, _no_ , he made do with what was in front of him; your hands, neck, and face. The supple flesh under his grip was blemished with recognizably shaped scars—the tasering poles of MULEs—but they didn’t at all cripple the offered comfort.

Higgs was just tired, exhausted with the endless thoughts—and only at sunset did he stop at the abandoned farm for rest.

He had never walked at such a distance since his youth. Those years were a goddamn travesty, but at least it was done with a sense of wonder. Higgs decided to keep his devices switched off for now, and he’d turn it back to finish the next half of his trip. Even from this distance outside of the terribly dilapidated warehouse, Higgs could see the headwaters that ran north and was a viable option to get to the central region. But first, he needed a fucking break. His legs were sore and a bit of a stretch wouldn’t hurt. With a slow and stiff gesture of his hand, the BTs surrounding the area fucked off. 

Higgs stuffed himself inside of an intermodal container, picking the one that was least stuffed with boxes and needless things that everyone left behind so easily. With one leg folding over the other, he compensated for the lack of body heat—admittedly, trying to remember yours—by folding his arms tightly to his chest. There was the occasional mutterings that left his chapped lips about missing the snug cushions of your couch, being curled up in that sofa while being a half-done mummy wasn’t a virtue he appreciated at the time, but now he wanted nothing more than to bask in some semblance of coddling warmth.

“Fuckin’ shit, little bird,” Higgs huffed with the increments of a low growl, pressing himself tighter against the corner of the rusted walls, “She’s being such a pain in my ass…S’not like I don’t deserve it…I don’t want to break my back for you anymore.”

The sounds of timefall were entirely lost on him now. Higgs wasn’t much of a sleeper. Countless nights of calamitous, destructive dreams plagued him. Nightmares, he considered, were based on memories—memories of his daddy, more specifically. There were no memories in his mind that revealed the end of a world he couldn’t see for half of his life, no, those were given to him by an angel. Being blessed with clarity cursed his sanity, and Higgs found no part in himself to hate it anymore—he gave up on that the second he decided to become her herald. Yet, for some odd reason, he yearned for silence.

_God_ , he thinks— _Amelie_ , he corrects, _no more dreams. Not today._

Higgs sleeps. The timefall that pelted down any exposed edges of the container from the ripped skylight was lost in unconsciousness. He thought of you, it wasn’t a surprise, he thinks of you often before he sleeps on rare occasions. They were once twisted and malicious methods of torture that could’ve inculcated some fear into you after failing appear so after your first meeting. You were basked in the presence of the particle of god, surely that had to mean something to you at the time. But no. You remained indifferent and annoyed as ever, whilst Higgs fronted himself as amused and calculating—but he was really as frustrated as you were. Those methods were gone now, they have been for a while; ever since you helped him for those few days.

_I don’t know her_ , he thinks, _I really fucking don’t_. Does that give him no right to kill you after everything you’ve done? Or does he have the means now that you’re gone? Higgs is pushed back and forth in this dilemma for a good hour now, not that he’d remember his answer if he ever got one when he awoke. These silences are both calming and painful—but he’d settle with just the passing memory of your taut voice. Maybe, if he ever did find you, the two of you would share a pizza. Higgs reminded himself then to add extra bacon. 

Guess you two shared just one common interest.

A jut, a brutal lash in his neck sends his head snapping forward with the sound of something downright demonic piercing through the innards of the container. _What the fuck—that’s no BT._ There are worse thoughts than a BT, he thinks after a moment to catch his breath, it could’ve been that maniac with a grenade launcher—fucking psycho tried to kill you and him last time. _Maybe they followed him?_ If that was the case, then so be it, you weren’t around to hold him back anymore—he could do as he damn well pleased. Fuck, he might even throw him farther than the sun…maybe he could do worse than a quick hurtling death. _Hell_ , that’s what Amelie made him for.

Higgs levers his eyes awake and immediately tries to shrink further into the cold, narrowed corner. It’s a terrible shriek that ruts up these thin, metal walls and the noise creates an instantaneous migraine. Higgs is fully awake now, bordering on panicking and acting violently out of irritation. There’s a clap of lightning in the sky and another ghostly shriek that makes even his toes curl. Jesus, _the fuck is that?_ The sound of timefall is ostentatious, making it harder to recognize just what kind of creature could create a god awful howl like that. Higgs hears a click— _clicking_ , tapping against the gravelly asphalt just outside of the container. It’s fucking _real_ , he doesn’t have control over the living. Higgs holds his breath, the first real procedure to execute in the face of danger, yet he lacks its usefulness against the living. 

**Tap. Tap. Tap.** _Oh, fuck— **BAM! BAM! CRACK!**_

A startled grunt flies out of his mouth, _holy fucking shit_ , he never thought he’d be so shaken by the commotion of an animal. His body rocks sideways with the sudden slam and splitting of the container. It’s integrity bursts from the likeness of a bone, thick and glistening wetly. However, through the sheared metal that poked holes throughout the barrier that kept Higgs from meeting his end, the bone was beginning to decay. A large ivory chip clatters loudly near his tucked feet and a bark follows throughout the worn-down walls. Higgs doesn’t know what to do, how the _fuck_ does he not know what to do? 

Why would he be rendered like this from the likes of a deer— _no, a stag?_ Another haunting bellow pinching his brain makes his hands fly to his ears. Nope, it’s an elk. It’s a goddamn fucking _elk_. Unfortunately, it wasn’t like realizing it made the chances of surviving any greater. The animal yanks its antlers out the holes and another sequence of tapping resounds throughout the shelter, and Higgs stiffens. A series of elongated, sharp shadows stretch at the side of the container’s opening, and soon enough, he sees the single strong hoof steps by the entrance. A snout pushes into his periphery, then a great black eye. _Holy fuck_ , he thinks, _it’s huge._

He doesn’t make any sudden movements, the head of the animal curves inside, revealing those painfully sharp and long crowns of antlers. Should he do anything without caution, the elk would come charging and would impale him without a chance for him to even stand up. Higgs tries to wait for his snout to twitch, waiting for some kind of signal that this elk wants to eat. With that kind of distraction, Higgs hoped he would have a better time getting out of here. Finally, the beast lowers his head, sniffing and grating his hoof into the concrete, the clutter of the keratin and the rustic metal makes his breath hitch and his hand pry. 

The giant sees him, clearly, his ears batting lightly from the sensation of Higgs’ breathing that gives away a little heavier once he sees its towering body. _Okay, now this is a peculiar situation_ , Higgs thinks to himself, spying with feverish eyes at the hump of the elk— _it’s giant; he’s a very old beast._

“Don’t mind me,” Higgs mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’m just…staying still for… ** _deer life.”_**

The elk snorted and released an ear-piercing bugle, where Higgs’ hands flew over his head.

_Oh, yeah. He’s fucked._

It takes a second for him to breathe, two seconds for him to register the sight of a crown of antlers charging for his eyes, and three to perform a chiral jump out of the abandoned farm. The sound of rushing air dizzies him, the tremor that follows in his knees threatens to drop into the pools of mud below. He doesn’t need a soiled uniform to make it evident to you— _if he **did** see you_—that he had a difficult journey. _So much for keeping his word_ , he thinks begrudgingly. The sound of clashing metal and a shrill collapse of iron made Higgs’ spine writhe uncomfortably, wondering what could’ve happened to the animal that was about to impale him through the skull, but he steels himself after carding a hand through his unkempt hair. The tresses are a bit oily, he’d probably ask to use your shower.

Higgs ambles back inside, already twisting at the first corner to get back to his intermodal container. There is a sudden garish light attacking his eyes once he caught the sight of the compartment, and with a narrowed eye craning to the ceiling, Higgs realizes that it had collapsed further upon the fierce vibrations of the elk’s damage. He stifles and chokes down on the globule of air in his throat, discerning the concerning sight of the elk’s muscular form trapped under the weight of the scrap iron that fell from the ceiling. Higgs didn’t feel relieved, _why didn’t he?_ He came around to meet the animal by the antlers again, intrepid upon doubting that the beast could cause any real damage.

The underside of Higgs’ boot is already slick with blood as he catches the sight of the elk’s glassy obsidian eyes. The beast’s antlers are in a state of rapid decay due to the overwhelming exposure to the timefall storm continuing to cascade through the open gaps in the ceiling, and yet, Higgs doesn’t feel affected by even the wind. Higgs feels a stir of empathy for the animal, and decides to strip himself from his cloak and drape it upon the crown. He stays with the beast for a lengthy amount of time, deciding to even peel back his gloves and stroke the long snout, shivering slightly to the heated cloud against his bare palm. He’s never been so close to an animal before, and he can’t even feel giddy about it like a kid—not while it’s dying in front of him… _because of him_.

“Sorry about this, big guy,” Higgs mumbles, knowing that even though the beast cannot understand his apologies, it was best to show some form of regret, “Didn’t mean to get you…caught up in all this,”

The beast shifts his head, a wise— _and almost knowing_ —look exchanged between the two and Higgs begins to frown.

“You lived a long life, didn’t you?” Higgs asks with some increment of envy, rolling his tongue over his teeth when he thinks of this cursed volatile life, “Wish I could say the same about humanity…not that I have much faith in the thought, anyway,”

The elk gives a long huff from his nose, no longer breathing in heaves from his parted mouth, “I’m…I’m sorry.”

He was lucky; he managed to say his first apology in _years_ before the end of a dying soul.

Higgs wished he could do the same for you.

Higgs broke his promise, he didn’t want to feel the weight of anymore semblances of guilt hanging over his shoulders throughout the second half of the journey. No, he chiral jumped to your bunker northeast of Mountain Knot. The first time coming here seemed like a lifetime ago, these snow-capped mountain ranges were like strangers to him, and hopefully you wouldn’t treat him the same. Higgs would try, he would explain to you why he did the things he did. Maybe not all of it, only the certain parts of the truth that hadn’t come to you yet. Amelie seemed to have left out the important details and left it for him to fill, and only him. She was bent on that. Now, that was a bitchy move, and it took everything within him to not speak out.

She is the Extinction Entity, _genius_. Don’t go jumping the gun here. Higgs felt around the clasps on his belt, the end of his index at the curve of his hip brushed against the cold biting metal of your daddy’s Desert Eagle. Maybe this was going to get you to listen. He knew it would never be enough to earn your trust, but it would certainly save your breath from spewing profanities for the sake of sentimentality. The thought of your wound caused by this heavy firearm would’ve been a fair exchange, and from the morbid curiosity, it fueled the speed in his next jump. He hardly felt fatigue during these materializations, not like Fragile— _weak thing._

Once Higgs had reached the dual peaks that bordered between the path to your bunker, the rumination came to an abrupt end. The sight alone was enough to make a tense sigh dart from between his teeth, but the desire to give you answers— _closure_ —made his rigid form finally pursue onwards. Unfortunately though, he could only get so far to the end of the peak once the sound of his comms resounded from the pocket on his chest. One of his goons were calling him, probably asking where the fuck he was and what their next plan was. He gave the orders to his second-in-command, what more do they want now? Higgs practically ripped the transmitter and pressed it close against his ear, ignoring the horrendous sensation of frigid ruggedized metal flush against the tip of his cheek.

_“What?”_ He didn’t bother to hide his taut and irritation as he spoke to the underling. 

There was a moment of hissing feedback, _“Callahan extracted two sixes and a zero. We wanted to ring you up, but he said that there was no need to. Apparently the division here in the northern outback aren’t taking internees. Especially not zeroes.”_

Higgs’ mind reeled, two sixes and a zero. A thought— _an intrusive one_ —made his response immediate.

“Leave the sixes intact. Marshal Callahan to deploy the zero into interrogation, find out what you can.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

Higgs prays that he made the right decision, and continues his journey hastily.

The terminal to your bunker lays out in front of him, every flat and curving surface is blanketed by garish snow. Yet, there is an immediate sense of concern scorching inside his chest once his nose crinkled at the pungent odor of something alcoholic and burnt. That alone is enough to make him break into a small sprint. Once he reached the tunneling frames, he found the small dark shadows huddled in the middle of the floor, right in front of the staircase. Whatever it was, it reeked. It took a few moments of anticipation to bring himself forward and see just what had been the cause of this burning smell—the thought of some part of you in it, already dead by flames doused in alcohol made his trepidation agitate. _What a shitty way to die,_ he almost sneered. 

“Little bird!” His hoarse shout finally ripped through the cold atmosphere, he considered himself lucky that such a beckoning call was absent of any cracks or wavers, “Little bird! Are you there!?”

Higgs imagined what kind of reaction you would greet him with. Would you be angry? Surprised? A little bit of both? You’ve both been ruthless to each other— _maybe he was so more than he cared to admit_ —so it wasn’t like his feelings weren’t mutual. Not completely, anyway. Higgs happened to realize that he had a part to play in this big plan, tasked to him by Amelie. _Bestowed_ just wasn’t the right word anymore. 

There was no answer. No indication of you hearing him is evident in the sounds or smells floating around him. The weather at this altitude was getting worse by the second, and Higgs suppressed the deep exhale from his nose as he was unnerved at the thought of stepping into your bunker again. You might come charging at him with a knife this time, you knew he wouldn’t do something stupid like shoot you in retaliation… _maybe_. Higgs was meticulous to the ambience around him, and it was unsettling that despite no matter how loud his calls were to you outside your home, you just _didn’t_ come out. You didn’t act out or give into his bluffs echoing throughout the ranges, and he was beginning to get concerned himself if anyone was around to hear him. The last thing he wants is another interruption by BRIDGES.

“Little bird! If you don’t come out, I’m gonna nuke Mountain Knot City with you in it!”

“Darlin’, I’m going to send a terrorist raid out here in ten minutes if you don’t come out here now!”

“I have a hostage with me that you can easily spare by talking to me. You can’t ignore me forever, sweetheart!”

Forever passed, and Higgs finally gave up.

There was fear, actual fear at the idea that Amelie had done something. Maybe she saw her herald becoming weak and would offer the chance to escape the annihilation of mankind. It would’ve made everything that she hoped for, her entire purpose to be all for nothing. Higgs doesn’t at all consider himself to be one for compassion, but _fuck_ , you two had already saved each other’s lives and it would’ve been enough for him to see either end. He stepped inside the terminal and investigated the crisping charred shadow at his feet, kneeling closer to inspect this repugnant aroma. His clairvoyance had been out of practice for a while, it had taken him a few seconds to discern your scent with the smell of lavender. It was light and had the undertones of sadness, coaxed with your tears and lingered a fresh sense of nostalgia. He traced his thumb over a piece of blackened plastic; a pinwheel, a child’s toy. _Was this yours?_

Higgs flicked over the foil curls and noticed a name written on the thin metallic stem. 

_“Rowan,”_ He muttered, blinking through a wide and incredulous gaze, “Baby… _Rowan?”_

_You…have a sibling?_

There was a sound. Something clicked within the terminal as soon as Higgs shoved his back from out of the platform. It was blaring, the sound of an autonomous alarm that he often had the pleasures of setting off during his earliest BRIDGES sabotaging escapades. The slivers of red and yellow hues beamed from the crack of your opened front door, and a part of Higgs wanted to ignore these warning signs and burst right in to relieve you of panicking. Surely, you were, right? The last thing you ever wanted was to see him. The least he could do was turn it off and then give a chance to explain himself. Every semblance of the coherent cluster of thoughts brought his stumbling pace to accelerate, scurrying down the flight of stairs to grip the doorknob with vigor. 

There, Higgs was greeted by an explosion. 

A shockwave that sent Higgs knocking him right on his ass was interrupted by yet another chiral jump. Although he did end up rolling onto his side, a much greater distance from your entire bunker now, he was caked in sleet and snow that worsened in frigidity as he turned over on his side. Higgs couldn’t tear his eyes away from the plumes of smoke beginning to darken the billowing clouds. From the smell of you, going up in smoke and fire, Higgs was utterly speechless. His face was blackened by ash and soot, bits of detritus and shrapnel thankfully hadn’t pierced the surface of his skin, but he did glimmer in certain lighted angles. Bewilderment, rancor, and distress granted him the ability to finally root himself in the midst of all of this chaos. The particle of God watched your steel sky burn.

_Fuck…_

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aight, I feel better about this (surprise!) higgs pov chapter than last time, hopefully you did, too. thank you for your patience and support ahhHH--it means the world to me! I'm not going to be uploading daily anymore after that whole toll on me so hopefully the pace will keep you in suspense now! thank you for reading, much love! 


	17. Destinesia「17」

## 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐧

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> The following 3 chapters will consist of dark themes including, violence, torture, trauma, PTSD [ Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder ], heavy language, physical and verbal assault/aggression, and blood/gore. Please, **_read with caution._**

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_**What** the fuck is happening?_

You don’t remember being tied up and stuffed into the back of a Cicada with the company of three men, but, _here you are._

They are geared and armed, heavy automatics strapped or tucked near their thighs. Bolting wasn’t a good option now, especially not in a moving vehicle. They’re dressed in black and gold gear, not to mention their ridiculously dumb hats. What are those? _Ribbons?_ Luckily, they haven’t noticed you had awoken—what would they do if they did—and the stench of paint fumes was dizzying. It was hard to concentrate on the craggy scenery racing past your hazy periphery. The sound of another engine roars, just behind the vehicle you’re in, it’s worse on your ringing ears. The walls in the back of your throat are sweltering, terribly parched and you wished you could reach for your canister tucked into your belt, if it hadn’t been for the rope— _strand_ —binding your wrists together. It rubs the tender flesh under your sleeves raw, but it’s not bad enough to let out that hiss behind your teeth.

_Where are you going?_ Surely, they had some kind of use for you; they did decide to take you rather than kill you, after all. You bite back a groan when your head presses deeper into the stiff headrest, _this kind of predicament was getting really fucking old,_ you spurn. Your augur of these unexplored regions from the map are useless, you truly don’t know where you’re going and what to anticipate. Being that they have goddamn guns, you easily assume the worst. And yet, you sleep. There is a kindling hope deep in your belly that someone will find you, take you away and run to safety—true freedom.

“Callahan’s overseeing the enterprise, can you believe it?” One of the men, the driver, speaks through his mask, his voice terribly yet coherently disembodied, “Crazy fuck’s gonna get us all killed.”

There is a hard snort coming from the man next to you, and a light crinkle of disgust creases your nose, “S’not his fault. Blame it on the bossman, his head ain’t screwed on right since he went east.”

“Yeah, well. At least, _one of them_ is doing something right.”

The slightest whiff of petrichor and ozone is just beyond your reach. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that you’re moving over grass, no wonder these fucks don’t know how to drive. One of the mens’ guns tap the underside of your knee, and you shudder surreptitiously. You haven’t yet decided whether or not these men are any worse than Higgs, but you pray that you don’t have to answer at all. There’s a rumble in her stomach, though faint, it’s enough for the man next to you to snap his head to your direction. You’re lucky enough to feign sleep. Goddamn you and your hunger.

“What about this one? You think we’re doing a good call?”

_Are they talking about you?_

There’s a deep, thoughtful hum eliciting from the passenger’s seat, the biggest of the three, you discern, “Nobody’s making the right calls these days, man. Not after Middle Knot. Don’t even think the bossman’s motives are any different than the UCA. Dunno if I can stand to see it.”

“You sayin’ you regret joining?”

A click of the gun that yanks from your knee rests on something firmer, and through barely cracked lids, you see the barrel of the gun pointing away. The man rested the weapon upon his lap, his finger dangerously close to the trigger. _The fuck_ —would they actually turn on one of their own? Soon enough, the stale air within the vehicle filters with hostility. You cannot tell if the driver is concerned about it or not, being that he’s so focused trying not to hit the moderately-sized rocks on the empty and unfamiliar terrain. The expectant silence is absolutely deafening, and momentarily, you forget that you’re even in danger upon the man who stiffens from his comrade’s suspicion. 

“No. _In perpetuum._ ”

Sleep doesn’t come easy, sure. But you savor every bit of that foreboding silence.

There is a pair of saccharine laughter that makes your stomach twist into knots; it’s your parents. 

The atmosphere is thin in this memory, but there is a sense of whimsicality, a wondrous breeze that makes your nostalgia thrum. At such a high altitude, back in the mountains of your childhood, you see the vivid shapes of your parents guiding a smaller you down the incline with giggling fits. The smell of sandalwood and sage tickles the underside of your nose, and you’re hit with a perception of familiarity. This the first time they took you sledding down the mountain, a birthday gift of a wooden sleigh crafted by your father’s axe and decorated by your mother’s flowers— _crocus_ , you remember. Not a speck of ire or nonreciprocal desires; just pure and utter happiness. 

They guide you by the hand wrapped in wool mittens, lifting you with ease into the vehicle before giving a light kick to the steel bridge. You’re laughing, giggling— _fucking smiling_. How long has it been since you’ve done any of those things? You soar across the fields of white until you can no longer see yourself from where you’re standing. With slight hesitance, you turn; you’re in the terminal.It’s dark, winking red and white lights. Smoke fans against your cheeks whilst cinders freckle the scorching red in your eyes brighter. Why is the bunker burning? _I only—I only burnt the box—the memories…!_

The scene shifts in a terrible downpour of white and red colors, and you almost sink to your knees with the nauseating motions. For one, measly second, you want to beg and reach out for your parents—probably for the first time in your life, even if it wasn’t real. You try to turn again, but are met with the sight of a burning Middle Knot. Your breath throttles and you suppress a strong urge to cry out in anguish. _You could have done something_ , someone—you don’t know who—chastises you, _you could’ve stopped Higgs if you were just a few seconds earlier. But no, you were a few seconds too late._

Your mind clicks; _Higgs_.

He’s not real, but it’s just like how you remembered him. The mask he dons is insulting to the eyes, and for some reason, you can’t see his’. There’s no storm brewing there, only a fire that burns from behind. Detritus with a foul, rotting stretch sprays against your cheeks, and you flinch and yelp from the contact. A substantial amount of defiance reawakens inside you, hot and sparkling. It’s been dormant for the longest time and you wield it with hesitance and raw fear.

_“Well, lucky you getting a front row seat to the main event!”_ His voice is clipped and hollow, the tone of no recognition, _“Come closer, take a better gander at the whole thing.”_

Higgs sounded like he was going to _kill_ you.

Middle Knot is an effulgence of red, white, and orange but the winking golden jaw of _this idiot—Higgs—this **terrorist** —_almost blinds you. _Get away_ , your body screams as it breaks into a sprint, _he’s a murderer, he’s a killer, he’ll do anything to hurt you—he’s a monster. He’s worse than your parents._ When was this nightmare going to end? It changed so fast and you don’t think you can comprehend the possibilities of what your unwilling mind might show you next. A heartbeat, then two. Connected and in sync. It’s the only sensation that guides you further away from this chaos, and eventually, the stench of rotting, burning, and toxicity empties from your lungs in a violent coughing fit. 

You hang your head between your knees and don’t dare to veer your head. The dull stench of tuberose, you’re tired of it. However, you can’t even bring yourself to turn and spit venom. A choked sob flees from your chest and you try to muffle the pathetic sound with a hand clamping over your mouth. Yet, you flinch from a sudden sting at its corner— _it’s split_ , you realize. A thin coppery taste collects from the swipe of your tongue across your lips, they’re swollen and puckered red. _What—why?_

**_Little bird._ **

The wrenchingly cursed pet name stalls your heart, and you’re suddenly stuck listening to his taunting and echoing voice. _Little bird, little bird, little bird_ —over, and over, and over again. This endless mockery, a mantra that sickens you to the core makes your knees finally collapse from under. You can never face him, look him in the eye while you deliver your piece. He’s unpredictable, transient, a fucking particle. And you’re just a porter—you _were_ a porter. Now…you don’t know what you are, who you’re supposed to be. Where are you supposed to go? _For fuck’s sake, what are you even doing!?_

_Middle Knot. Your parents. Lake Knot. BRIDGES. South Knot. Mama and Lockne. Port Knot. MULEs. Mountain Knot._ These places, people, and things begin to resonate from all around. The sequence is familiar, but you stoutly attempt to block them out with a shattering, unheard scream. Everything ripples around you, like waves, but it all comes back to collapse and lap around you. 

It’s like you’re stuck, trapped in the confinements of your intrusive mind and have no way out. And soon enough, you’ve found yourself drowning. You’re lost in this inescapable abyss of black and every inch of nothing that permeates your lungs is like lava. Is this it? Is this what dying is like? Are you going to the Beach? The sensations are scorching, yes, but it isn’t without warmth. It’s utter clarity; the feeling of letting go. Maybe this way, the nightmares will finally end. _And people wonder why you hated dreaming._

_Central Knot.Timefall. Capital Knot. Chiralium. Edge Knot. DOOMs._

_When is—who is—why isn’t…How is—Could there be…What about…_

_When is he going to come back? Who is he with? How is he? Could he be here? What about there?_

Where is he?

**_Where is Rowan?_ **

The steel doors that loudly grind open isn’t a pleasant blessing that pushes you from your nightmare, but there is some semblance of appreciation. Before you can try to swallow down your panic with arid attempts, you’re dragged by the hair out of the vehicle and stumble onto your knees. There is a cold, prickly sludge coating the entirety of your thighs and calves as soon as you’re shoved down— _mud_ , you hiss—and luckily, you don’t even get to see how big of a stain it made as one of the men throws a woolen bag over your head. Although your vision is obscured, the odor of petrichor never leaves your senses, but it’s hard to discern the virtuous earth from all of these sharp, coppery scents.

“The zero goes to Compartment C, the two sixes go to A. Keep them separate.”

Sounds like the passenger chose duty over freedom, you think with rolling eyes, of fucking course.

There are noises above you, shouts and sounds of command and iron—they’re getting closer. Your heart drops to your stomach when you think you hear a pair of heavy boots trudging across the mire. This guy sounds bigger than the rest, you presume, trying to stifle your own breathing into slow and long drawls to listen to the conversation above—or around—your head. It doesn’t help that the slick roll from your knees in the mud is continuously sinking, the wet sound is fuzzing.

“What took you so long?” A man— _British, cockney_ —certainly doesn’t have the patience of a saint or the voice of an angel.

The man who was next to you— _the trigger-happy one_ —replies, “Fuckin’ Elysian runts stole two hauls of our cargo during rotations. Tracked two of the little shits down, couldn’t seem to find the third. Word is though, they’re sixes; we’ve got top management.”

Your line of sight dances around these annoying phosphenes, but you choose to focus on the approaching footsteps enacting from your left—they come in heavy, angry strides. You flinch at the sound of a blunt object hitting flesh, a thud, then a guttural cry spills from the trigger-happy fuck. You downright jolt when you feel his body lightly scrape against yours— _who the fuck are these people!?_

“Now,” The Brit begins, and a sharp, metallic scrape rings in your ears, “I could forgive you, fuckin’ blokes, for the lost cargo. Not like the bossman even needs it, s’got DOOMs to spare for us all. But, what I can’t stand for is any more of these Elysian shits fuckin’ up my field!”

_**God** , can that guy scream. _

There is a pause, and you feel an electrifying, dangerous shift in the air, “The fuck is this? Why’s a bum here? We don’t need shit from em’.”

“S’ a girl,” The driver says, though he doesn’t remove the bag over your head, he does pull your scalp back, “Apparently the bossman’s got use for a zero. Interrogation and everything. Says you gotta break her.”

It’s already hard enough to observe your surroundings. Your perception of this silent ambience—trying to guess what this man was thinking or how he looked—was just adding more to your anxiety. There is a grating sound of leather and gravel scraping together, and you shudder as you feel fingers graze the underside of your chin.

“Is she cute?”

**_Oh, for fuck’s sake._ **

“You gonna talk yet, love? You’ve been so quiet.” 

Teetering your options of spitting at him and staying silent, you react physically first; tearing your head away from his moderate grip. The effort leaves the air around your cheeks ardent, yet the frigidity of mud and the milieu is your firmest bothersome focal point. There is an immediate round of cacophonic laughter rumbling through the opaque fabric around your head, though the noise is braying and annoying, you keep your head low and your body stiff and rigid from any other unwanted grips or gestures. You’ve amused too many sick fucks in your life and you don’t want to start counting with two hands; you ultimately choose silence.

“Isn’t she just chipper? Alright, lads. String em’ up.”

The hand tugging your hair loosened, giving some momentary relief before a dull pain ripped through the back of your skull. You gripe and shiver, sent forward onto the mud that molds around your body, only to pull you deeper into unconsciousness and flaring agony. Rancor is already seething through your clenched jaw, but you can’t find the strength or the determination to rise, spew curses, and bolt. These fucks are worse than MULEs. There’s too many of them and you’re—you _were_ a porter. Now, you’re just helpless; a **captive**. 

_Fuck this_ , you spurn before you’re no longer able to cope and stay awake through the pain, _fuck everything._

Your eyes fling open by a sharp jolt of electricity prodding at your spine and you’re dreadfully kept awake by the pounding headache. 

You think that the irritable shock is from a MULE and their godforsaken taser pole, but you end up being mistaken by the appearance of the man who yanks the weapon away. _That’s no MULE_ , you almost snort. No MULE would have a face that unsightly. Slicked back brown hair framed on a rough-hewn scarred face. A long, bisque jagged line curled above his brow, stretching all the way down to the corner of his mouth. He was truly a despicable face resting on taut, broad shoulders. A pair of armed men stuck to his side, assault rifles in their hands who you fear might be trigger-happy, but they didn’t make this behemoth any less intimidating. There isn’t a brand on his gray vest or black long-sleeve. Your suspicions are false under the detail that he didn’t have a BB unit; this wasn’t the stranger, but you don’t think you have the time to be relieved about it.

Another ripple of electricity makes you convulse with a strangled yelp—someone else was behind you. The sharp prong tears away from your arched spine, and it takes everything within you not to crumple down and begin begging. You don’t even know who they are, why give such pathetic satisfaction to total strangers? Heels clicked against asphalt and you felt immediate panic, craning your head up as much as your strength would allow to see a woman—exceptionally short chestnut brown-hair fixed on a hollow and vacant face. Deadpanned black eyes bore into yours, another taser pole kept in her hand. 

_It’s not Amelie, thank god._

A crooked finger from the scarred man sends the two armed men at his side away, marching toward the door—the exit to this cell, you realize, before a metallic clatter ensues the silence settles again. It’s so hard to focus on anything. Your muscles are twitching and spasming, beginning to become disoriented by the stifling heat racing through your nerves. Your ragged breathing that scrapes the dry walls of your throat finally ceases when you stare beyond the barred walls—looking out, at the end of the corridor is spray-painted with a sign, a brand; a golden pharaoh’s head. _Void-out_ , it spelt. You just barely manage to make the word out through your stinging tears.

“Fucking Higgs.” You whisper malignantly, before being silenced by another punishing voltage on your abdomen—this time, you don’t hold back your wail.

A deep, grating hum of amusement reaches your ears, and you just barely miss it, “Wouldn’t have guessed someone like you knew the bossman, poppet. Interesting. Maisie,”

Maisie—the woman with eyes like a dead fish—crosses at a moderately preempted pace to your side and lurches forward. Her expression is invariable, but the grip her long nails has into your scalp is unbearingly painful. She scoops a handful of your hair, snapping your neck up to the ceiling, and a guttural cry flies out of your mouth. Your voice rattles up these concrete walls, and although everything is mostly disoriented and numb, this new searing pain is already too much for you.

On the other hand, the metallic snap of the pole behind you is a telltale sign that there is much more to come.

The man crouches down to your height, and the visage of that hideous scar is filled in every edge of your sight. He’s looking at you, studying you. Hell, if you had any working nerve left in your body, you’d say he was checking you out. It took a lot in your power not to use any semblance of moisture on your tongue to spit in his face—doing so towards the stranger seemed unfathomably easier, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. The weapon that crackled and left a scorching brand against your loin rendered your physical defiance meager. You only glared when he snatched the sides of your face with his rough, calloused hand, and already that kind of contact made you whimper.

“Now, I can’t help but wonder what a lush thing like yourself has done that caught Higgs’ attention. Luckily, that’s what I’m here for. Full interrogation, the works. I had my doubts breaking in a zero, yeah, but I couldn’t do shit. Not while he’s so fuckin’ busy all the time,” Yeah, you hold in a bitter scoff, busy with me, “ _In perpetuum_ —and all that shit. But! I have the reins now, poppet. Lucky you. We’re going to have a lot of fun,”

The sneer that he sees on your face, blazing and the epitome of complete disgust makes him bray. His gravely laughter makes that defiant front of your falter slightly and you flinch as his blunt nails pinch harsher into your cheeks, leaving them flushed, stinging, and inflamed. _God_ , you think, _please don’t put me through this._

**Not again.**

“So, before we begin, I want to mention that none of this has to get all messy. We terrorists do like to get out of hand...but, one word, one flap of those pretty lips of yours can give you some twee bit of comfort than this cell, and from me. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Maisie— _whoever the fuck she is_ —seems provoked upon your lack of a response. Without warning, she rips away her hand and flutters her fingers over your face—a few strands of hair floating in front of your eyes whilst you suppress that dry wail clawing in your throat, but you chose to focus on rachor; on this bastard. _Knock-off Higgs_ , you snort. It doesn’t amuse him, surprisingly.

“I’d prefer to take it up with Higgs himself,” You snarl weakly, your voice coming out muffled through swollen lips, “Wouldn’t wanna waste any more of his precious time. Wasted enough looking at you, I’d bet.”

That earned one hell of a punch to your stomach. You fear you were gonna spew bile and any bacon excess of your breakfast from a few days ago, yet all that comes is heavy gasps and wet sputters. The view of your head slumping against his hand, dry heaving and writhing in raw pain brings a rotten smile across that big mouth of his. It curls quickly, pearly and the utmost wickedly. _These were Higgs’ men_ , you think, _why should you expect anything less?_

_Maybe it’s because that’s all Higgs ever did for you?_

“Oh, how rude of me not to introduce myself just before the fun, innit?”

Another tase to your back makes you scream.

“The name’s Callahan.”

It’s only been a few hours but you’ve already had enough.

Callahan—a British prick who seems to get his rocks off on watching your face after getting tased—didn’t seem to have as much of a tolerance for your candid attitude and slapstick remarks as Higgs. He had the impression of some kind of ticking time-bomb, prone to violent outbursts whenever he threw something or slammed your head to the wall. Everything he did was loud and dizzying, and even your broken howls of pain wasn’t enough to make him stop just to release another bray of laughter—he only ever did so if he thought about you begging. _Sick fuck._

Turns out he was into a bit of knife-play, _goodie_. His favorite toy, as you put it—which also ended with you getting a slap to the face—was a hunting knife. Now, that stung a bit. The blade wasn’t as rusted nor was the grip chipping like what your father’s collection was rendered to. He kept up appearances, he took care of this dark beauty, you could clearly tell. The sting the knife inflicted upon shearing through the sleeve of your gear brought upon immeasurable fear. He had a knick for slicing up sections of your suit, starting with the places you were tased—a large rectangular burn mark on various sections of your back.

Callahan had exposed these wounds to the cold, stale ventilated air of this cell, left you writhing for some minutes only to come back and dig his knife into some of them more. The beatings, surprisingly, you could manage. His fists were incredibly bony and calloused, his skin against yours in some instances were grating, and the scream that it elicited was like music to his ears.

_Holy shit,_ you coughed as another bruise was pressed upon by another tase, _how the fuck am I still alive?_

“One of my men brewed up a little theory, sparked my interest quite a bit,” _God, the sound of his voice, his shitty accent was fucking infuriating_ , “Considering that you were found just a few ways from those two little Elysian shits, it would be logical to assume that you might be working with them. Maybe you were setting up a refuge? A rendezvous point? Could’ve outran my dogs had you not slipped off that fuckin’ mountain. Do tell me if I’m wrong.”

_“You are,”_ You answer immediately, rolling onto your back once the simmering bruise in your leg dulled, your tailbone rubbing against your bound wrists, “I don’t know anything. I don’t know who the fuck are the Elysian—”

A kick to the ribs came with a crack. _Oh, shit._ That guttural scream that flew out of your mouth nearly drowned it out, but your comprehension was rather slow today. Callahan pressed the heels of his palms into his temples before throwing them down in a fit of rage.

**_“—ABSOLUTE FUCKING BULLSHIT!”_** He roared angrily, blinking once before sighing into a completely calm and menacing disposition, beginning to kneel to your height on the ground, the taser sparkling just over the place he kicked, “I did warn you about my temper. Come on, love. There’s nothing left to lose. You and I both know that America’s on its final countdown. Hell, if you know Higgs, you should sure as hell know that. The end will be glorious, the land swept up and swallowed by a sea of fire. Or we’re all fucked to death, I dunno. That is...if the Elysian don’t fuck it all up first,”

Your legs feebly pressed further away towards the wall, your eyes that were red and glossed with tears continuing to glare up at him, “Bunch of tykes and lost souls; outcasts. _Sufferers_. High level and low level DOOMs users. Sounds fuckin’ brilliant, yeah? They come from all over, where America couldn’t reach before—but they didn’t need to lift a finger; _they_ came to us. Some blokes came from Russia, some from Paraguay, a few from Singapore...all over. All the way to our fucked up little country, it’s just amazing, innit?”

Callahan smirked before pressing the taser into your broken ribs, and the symphony of your screams was _deafening_.

“Now, poppet, I’m gonna ask again…” Callahan caressed your cheek, almost with affection, “Who are you to Higgs and the Elysian?”

A terrible idea; a smirk began on your face and you shifted slightly into his touch—now that certainly spurred him and his attention, “Come...come closer. Throat’s...a-a little...dry.”

The next step to your absolutely awful yet incredibly satisfying plan; letting you get close enough to his ear before ripping a chunk off it with your teeth. Blood sprayed against your cheek and for once, you’re glad it wasn’t yours, and the sound of Callahan’s grunt made you hum against the iron taste. He shoves your head into the ground, slams it with the back of his hand and proceeds to keep doing it in relentless fury. By now, you’re barely conscious and watching the room spin and darken. The snap of the tasers bring an unparalleled fear when it levels toward your stomach— _that cursed spot_ —before the sound of the cell ripping open cripples the desire to pass out.

“Callahan,” It’s Maisie, you see through half-lidded eyes, her normally inexpressive face is slightly widened with worry “You’re— _oh_ —”

“—What in the fucking bloody hell are you comin’ in for!?” An absolutely thunderous silence ensues before Callahan smacks his hand away from your head and onto the concrete floors, “Don’t just stand there all gutted! Fuckin’ help me up! String her!”

The sound of heels clicking against the floor is the last resonance to fade, and the lingering hope that it was Amelie is continuously begging for her to end it all.

**_I’m pregnant._ **

Those words that left your mother’s mouth brought upon chaos in that little bunker. There were so many emotions, pity upon your sibling’s upbringing who hadn’t even been born yet. You didn’t want him to grow up the way you did, and it took only a second of you—your fork hovering over that roast seasoned with too much thyme—for you to realize that. Your head rings with the sound of laughter, crying, and then into horrid, gruesome screams. 

You don’t remember your parents doing screamo to the announcement. 

Your eyes fly open, finding yourself in the cell again with your hands chained above your head to the ceiling, and absolutely tumultuous heavy metal music blasts into your ears. You look down, Callahan’s smiling at you, shielded by the noise with earmuffs—you smirk at that. His hands fiddle with his favorite knife, the dark beauty—you mirthley named it, traces along the long shapes of your collarbone. The jagged line makes your body stiffen under the sting. You jolt violently at the sensation of his hands clasping against your side, and a chuckle breathes warmly against your paled face. _No_ , you beg silently, _don’t fucking—shit—don’t fucking touch there._

“Mornin’, knew you wouldn’t want to miss out on another day of fun,” Callahan taps a finger on the cover, pointing at the ear that you didn’t bite off, “Neat, aren’t they?”

You merely glare and he, of course, laughs—raising a hand to cut that awful music—and the ringing in your ears heightens, “After your little stunt yesterday, I decided; you’re no fuckin’ use for me. But you are of use to Higgs, for reasons you’re too fuckin’ stubborn to give up,”

The knife presses into the middle of your chest, just above your cleavage—you don’t give a shit if your face pales—only listening to the clipped laughter he makes, “Just an hour ago, he gave me the a-okay to really, really dig deep. Cheers to him, eh?” 

Your head swims with darker thoughts—much darker than the blade that drew up the column of your neck—wanting, for some reason, to deny that Higgs had any approval of this. Sure, you were a spitfire to him, but you had the right reasons. Didn’t you? Was taunting and mocking him actually worth torture? _Fucking coward,_ you spurn, _he couldn’t even do it himself—getting his fucking subordinates to do it for him—clean hands. **Fucker**._

You almost beg to see him, now isn’t that _hilarious?_

“Let’s try this again, yeah?” Callahan raised his brows, that jagged scar along his cheek giving you a great sense of repulsion, “Who are you to Higgs and the Elysian?”

The tip of the blade stops to the tip of your chin, and only then do you face down and sneer at him in the eye. Callahan’s eyes are a fern green, it’s almost sickening. It reminds you of the green of summer, journeying, and your mother’s plants. It bears no kind of resemblance of a storm, of the sky, or the beach. You stifle a shaky breath that barely chokes out of your lips, your throat immensely desiccated and nearly brittle. Callahan still has some stupid fucking hope that you’ll crack, but all you do is pull the corners of your lips downward and bare your bloodied teeth.

“Fuck y— _Agh!”_

You can’t finish your chiding as Callahan drags the blade against the prickling bruise on the side of your thigh. The blood that runs down the length of your calf produces a strangled cry that echoes down the steel corridor, and you hope to God someone who has even half a heart hears it. Callahan sighs fondly at your face, agape and damp with sweat and blood—digging deeper for tears. The pain is manageable, but annoying. These vexing hilarity, scarce mirth, and amusement in your suffering is all too familiar, and you hated every bit of it. 

This is what Higgs would’ve been like if you hadn’t challenged him.

“Come on, love,” Callahan drawls sweetly, twisting the knife deeper into your leg, “I can’t quite hear you with these buggers on. You’re gonna have to scream.”

The bloodcurdling scream that he desires only builds in your stomach. The iron you taste on the back of your teeth helps in swallowing and keeping it all down. Your anguish trumps exhaustion, hunger, and displeasure during this relentless torture, but you know the less you talk—the more you continue to be a cheeky wise-ass around this sicko—the worse the pain will be. Callahan hums thoughtfully, smacking his hand on your hip bone, provoking a whimper when the blade finally halts carving around the lavender rim bruise. As more proof that the guy was an absolute prick, he lets the knife hang out of your leg. 

He removes his earmuffs and lets them fall carelessly on the concrete, and you’re met with a hardened glare through half-lidded and teary eyes, “I think it’s best that we move onto a more effective approach. Well, granted—the effectiveness wasn’t _correctly_ evaluated. A ton of fucked up shit done onto a few poor blokes, all for a packet of paper that this country tried to cover up,”

Callahan removes his hands from you and folds them tightly against his chest. The searing burn in your flesh feels some semblance of relief by the cooler blood cascading down your calf. The exposed patches of your skin can no longer feel the stiff ventilation, and it pains you that the unbalanced temperatures keep you awake. Over his shoulder, you see a silhouette; a fucking person. They’re stiff and unmoving, yet your hope that they fucking do something is _immense_.

Callahan waves his hands in front of your face, staring and smiling right into your dark eyes.

“ _The Senate Intelligence Committee Report on CIA torture_ ,” _That was a rather...long title_ , “Have you heard of it? See, I don’t give one ounce of a bloody shit about politics. Most of us don’t, we’re just in it for the thrill. Ace in shootin’ people, blowing up cities...not squabbling under the UCA’s thumb. But, before the UCA became a buncha paranoid fuckin’ wankers, it was the _USA_. Though, there are some shitty qualities that survived in the void-outs,”

Callahan shrugs, crossing the cell towards the silhouette—Maisie, you realize—to procure a packet of papers and bring it back with a wicked grin, “This little beauty survived. These poor blokes, interrogated— _well_ — ** _tortured_** all for the sake of protecting their already ruined country. Happened right after _9/11,”_

You’ve barely studied that incident. Your youthful days of studying had been blocked out by passing sceneries and remembering delivery requests. Learning about the past, about America, just wasn’t a past-time anymore. You, begrudgingly, left it up to Callahan for this awful history lesson.

“I was able to skim through and find all of the torture techniques they used,” Callahan sighed, rolling his shoulders before flipping the packet open and holding up a page to your face, “Chock full of daft shit, but the _techniques_ …Came to me in a dream last night after those pretty fuckin’ lips of yours bit my ear off. Thought I’d use it on you. Hell, you even get to pick!”

His other hand rips the knife out of your leg, and he is finally blessed with that scream. Callahan presses the bloody blade against a long list, like red ink, it underlines the title of ‘ _The Detention of Abu Zubaydah and the Development and Authorization of the CIA's Enhanced Interrogation Technique_ ’, and your hope finally diminishes, your defiance going up in black smoke.

_“Shall we begin, love?”_

  
  


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This chapter was super heavy--whew! thank you so much for your patience, it honestly pains me that I'm not uploading daily anymore but I gotta catch up with school. yikes!

thank you so much for 1000 hits for this story [ I didn't think I'd even make it past 500 or something lmao ] , I'm so grateful and my heart goes out to each and every one of you. hopefully, you'll stick with me until the end [ it's gonna get pretty fckin wild from here folks, lmao ]. much, much love!

also, fun-fact; this is my first time writing actual torture and whump. hopefully, I did alright. 


	18. Rubatosis「18」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

* * *

> The following 2 chapters will consist of dark themes including, violence, torture, trauma, PTSD [ Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder ], heavy language, physical and verbal assault/aggression, and blood/gore. Please, **_read with caution._**

* * *

_One second, one **fucking** second._

One second of sleep. That’s all what your little heart desired, but dared not to deem it as a merit. 

You didn’t have voracious passion for music, melodies and harmonies came as mere sounds and rings; the supposed emotion—each articulated crescendo or staccato—that was woven into each note came as an indifference to you. The only tune that harbored some sense of sentimentality was the lonesome lullaby your mother used to sing to her pregnant belly, her hand massaging the swell fondly. You don’t question whether she found the tune when she had you first and you just couldn’t remember it, and you don’t question if she had fabricated it only for your unborn sibling out of envy. And now that you’re older, the memory was pure melancholy.

The song is haunting, but what you wouldn’t give to hear it again. You would have sang it to your heart’s content, but your throat and voice was desiccated and so hoarse, you feared the melody would be disembodied. Irately, did you endure the violent bursts of screamo music that pounded into your eardrums that prevented you from getting a wink of sleep.

 _Just one second_ , you begged silently through twitching and glassy eyes, _either one second or a thousand years of sleep, please_. The heavy metal electric guitars, drums, and pure vile screaming made your apathy in music augment. It was the perfect accompaniment for the sleep deprivation that Callahan and Maisie subjected you to.

The brit with the cockney accent and his barely eloquent nor outspoken subordinate made you question how in the world idiots like them ever survived in a world like this. _Hell_ , you could ask the same thing towards the leaders who kept whatever was left standing—but these two really left you baffled. Aside from enduring their bizarre natures and ambiguity as to why exactly they were doing such horrendous things to you, they left you to yourself.

Now, _that_ was one of the more terrifying methods of torture—even if they didn’t know it. These restless thoughts and emotions that massacred every relaxed sense of thinking peaked once you were left alone in that cold, windowless, steel cell. And only on rare occasions—when you made a particularly loud rasping breath or chatter of your teeth—did a single coherent plea give you clarity.

_Someone_ , you prayed, _anyone get me out of this._

Every inch of your exposed skin was inflamed and squalid. Where Callahan didn’t cut you, he tased. Where he didn’t tase, he beat. Wounds more often than not lapped over each other in sickly, grotesque colors that you rarely caught glimpses of when Callahan’s blade reflected your body in a certain angle. The dark beauty of the hunting knife shredded and tore away at any patches of your gear that bothered him, putting up with that horrid accent that had some semblance of amusement and anger; so, _so_ much like Higgs. But you tried not to think about that.

The panel of light on the ceiling above clattered with the iron chains that strung up your wrists; holding you high and your toes just barely scraping against the bloody asphalt. Everything was swollen and burnt, teetering on infected or lost completely. And that fucking _terrified_ you. 

Maisie wasn’t any different than her colleague; she didn’t need to talk to be an asshole. Those cold, dead fish-eyes that glowered down on you whenever you indulged in drinking creek water in small, plastic cups or ate unmade MREs— _basically powder_ —and stale, dry bread made you somewhat abashed and mortified. You didn’t bother to try talking to her. The fuck would you say? What kind of conversation could you strike up with a woman who was actually enjoying herself as a terrorist— _who Higgs tried to make you become?_ Maisie ended each meal with a kick to stomach, sometimes to your cracked and bruised ribs, which ended with you just retching it all back out again. Callahan came back in the room with a cigar between his lips, holding that cursed packet of papers, your mind reeling in apprehension for another horrid history lesson. _And what better way to learn than a demonstration?_

“Welcome to your second day, love,” His voice was gravely and raw with mirth—like he’d just woken up—and you realize then that you didn’t have a good perception of time as you thought, “Can’t fuckin’ believe you made it. A day. _A bloody day!”_

You wince at the bray and each sharp clap that Callahan makes, bloodshot eyes settling with his—and you’re utterly revolted by the scar, “You’re either one chuffed up poppet or a complete nutter. Whatever fuckin’ regardless, I will take whatever piece of information you’ve got stuck up in that knackered head of yours. One way or another, today or tomorrow. This is only day two, yeah? We’ve got a lot to look forward to. So,”

Callahan reaches into the holster around his thigh, unsheathing the dark blade, raising his brows, “What are you to Higgs and the Elysian?”

When you don’t reply, it earns you another vicious carve to your bruise. 

Higgs approved of this; the fact is a constant mocking thought.

He approved of Callahan slicing you up bloody and leaving you in the cell alone for hours on end. He approved of Maisie to set up three light panels around you without a word. He approved of you being subjected to—what Callahan fondly called it, as _sensory deprivation_ —thrashing and weeping at the occasional blinding flashes that overridden your flimsy senses. Everything that you were begging for; some semblance of actual heat or beaconing light across your skin hit you all at once, and whatever brutal pain came next was worse than the past sessions. Being isolated for hours on end, unable to sleep, either being kept in silence or listening to ear splitting screamo made every nerve in your body numb and disoriented. Callahan took in the sight graciously, his harsh, blood-soaked palm slapping against your thigh and relished in your shiver, and the stench of smoke permeates every inch of your shriveled and tired lungs.

His cigar hangs loosely between his teeth when he drags the tip of the knife over another new welt, and although he doesn’t dig into it like he normally does, it still makes you rigid, “I can’t imagine what this must be like for you, love. If you know Higgs and you’re this fuckin’ stubborn, then surely, this is one blimey shitload of a revelation for you, innit? He wasn’t gonna protect you, poppet, he left you with me. Fuckin’ gobshite _hates_ you,”

A startled gasp flies from your swollen lips as he grips the bone of your hip, “He thinks you fuckin’ deserve this.”

For some _ungodly_ reason, you hope that such a thing isn’t true.

“I-I…” Your bruised lips can’t keep up with the words your mind wants to form, leaving each shape and syllable across your mouth is gaping and blubbering, “I…No… _No_ , he f-fucking…fuck…doesn’t…”

There is a brief pause from Callahan as he takes his hand from your hip bone, but not before leaving it with a tight, red pinch. You hope to god— _or whoever else is an equivalent_ —that he’s finally going away again. You much rather favored the pain than the noise. Coolness wets the bottom of your lips and you pry them apart eagerly; creek water. The earthy taste coating the back of your grating throat grounds you in a way; you’re still surrounded by land, wilderness, freedom. As long as you survive, in some way or another, you’ll be able to trek through them and get out of here for good. Callahan sighs tenderly, stroking his knuckles against your jaw and drops the cup onto the floor as soon as it’s empty—the ceramic fragments that spray against the ground are painfully shrill.

“Maybe he doesn’t think you deserve all this, poppet. Maybe all he wants is to truly wield annihilation and doesn’t want anyone to get in his way. That’s what we’re all fuckin’ rooting for, ace in wiping the slate clean. But what about you?” Callahan soaks in the perplexed and weak crease of your face before taking out the cigar from his lips, “You know the end is comin’. Most of us who realized it lost the plot, went and bloody butchered their families. Have you wondered if you deserve this? What have you done that made you strung up here in the first place?”

_I watched a city burn_ , you think somberly, eyes full of lament, _I hurt Fragile. I betrayed Heartman, Mama, and Lockne. I stopped loving my parents. I let Higgs stay in my life. I couldn’t find Rowan!_

Your silence is all that Callahan needs as an answer, smiling and nodding thoughtfully before raising his fingers to grip your chin. He doesn’t sniff you, lick you, or does whatever you suspect Higgs might’ve done in a situation like this. You almost want to laugh, imagining yourself shoving or kicking him off with an exchanging banter— _almost_. Had it not been for Callahan’s tongue running across the bottom of his lip, you would’ve made him perceive the smile as a beckon; a challenge. You keep quiet and stiff, the newest carving in your hip bone becomes your focal point. 

“Lucky me getting to break a pretty thing like you,” He hums, rolling the cigar between his fingers, “But what a shame that you’re not so easy to crack.”

His cigar comes down, and you scream as he presses the cindering end against your hip.

_Do you deserve this?_

What a question to ask while you sit in a dark steel tub full of ice and water; somehow prevailing the pain of submergence. Your focus heightens only slightly in this bath, despite not being able to feel anything, and the rumination of being merited to this kind of torture is the only past time. You think things over; the logical side of you feels like you don’t deserve to be shredded and burned. But there is also a sense of punishment that dwindled in the back of your mind for hurting others, and that it hadn’t been delivered until only now. The ice clicking against your trembling hands makes you become aware again of why you’re alone out here in the first place; it all started with your parents.

They coddled and suffocated you with safety and affection; arguably what any parent is supposed to supply to their child but you were sick of it, for some reason. They taught you things that every adult knew when dealing with a world like this, made you kick, scream, and fight toward any unnatural forces. But you decided to face the living; your parents, these terrorists, the government. It was heart wrenching. A shuddery sigh bubbled from your lips, and the frigid waters crept higher on your cheeks—you gave up on keeping your neck high a while ago, you don’t remember how long. Callahan said the second day, but for all you knew, he was just fucking with you and maybe it’s already been a week. _God, you hoped not._

The waters here are shockingly not that different than the seas of tar you’ve faced in your life. They rocked you sideways and nearly flipped you overboard, on a boat or off your feet. You grip the ice cubes harder to ground yourself again, but the feeling of panic against those undulations of sludgy waves and ranges of high-rise buildings worsen. You hear the dull claps of thunder— _a storm in the sky_ —but in this moment of fright, you’re worried if Callahan or Maisie might be pounding on the tub just to terrorize you again. You remember the motions— _seasickness_ , you could call it—as you fight to conquer these icy, thick oceans. 

_You’re so close_ , you remember thinking when you push the wall— _the boat_ , you recall—closer to shore, _I’m coming, Rowan. I’m almost there._

You remember how painful it was to reach Edge Knot City for the first time, six months ago.

A baby’s cry startles you, your eyes flying wide open and a terrified whimper bubbles out of your lips. The wail makes your hands clench tighter, flying sideways, and hitting the tub with a metallic thundering rattle. Terror fuels what adrenaline that you have left, and some biting force chides you to save your strength to deliver a kick in the balls to Callahan and clock in the jaw to Maisie, but something else is overpowering. Horrific nostalgia makes your muscles stiffen, prepared to hit the walls of the tub again. For good measure, you subject yourself to swallow these bloody waters to scream. You don’t care if Callahan would punish you with another carving for defiance.

“Stop!” You shout, pounding your fists and clenching when the thunderous echoes strain your sense of hearing further, “Fuck! Stop! God— _no_ —god, please! Enough of this bullshit!“

The memories of a void-out come back to you in one whipping motion. And the nausea of remembering the seasickness makes you collapse—swallowed within these cold waters. Edge Knot was a distant memory, but the stinging agony is still fresh—the frigid bath was just salt in the wound. 

_Please_ , you pray one final time, _just end it already._

The lid of the tub yanks open with a piercing grind, and you wince at the garish punch of light to your eyes. You’re met with the sight of Callahan smirking, his hideously scarred face glowering down at you and reaching for your cheeks almost immediately. You don’t bother to cover yourself with your hands—the pound of ice cubes takes that task—you’re too weak. His hands grip and brush against your cheeks, clean of your warm blood and astoundingly warmer than your skin—you almost feel a faint twinge of appreciation. 

“Evening, love,” His thumb swipes below your eye, and you feel a sliver of warmth there, “Ready for another round?”

You close your eyes when you let him yank you out of the tub, feeling a terrible ardency when you’re caught in his arms.

_No_ , you finally decide, _not this. You do not deserve this. But you deserve something._

“What are you to Higgs and the Elysian?”

Callahan brandishes the dark knife and rests the tip on your nose. You barely stiffen, if anything you let it happen. The cascade of however much blood you have left and how many bones that still creak come to you whenever Callahan moves. It’s like you’re hollow, an empty husk of the person you once were; either compliant or defiant, and with every engrave he makes, you fear it will all just pour out. If anything, you’re bled out already; left on your knees and some semblance of dignity keeps yourself from falling forward—your spine left only in a painful hunch. 

“I’m…” You almost answer, but the sound of Maisie’s blue heels—a noise that you finally are fully able to recognize and discern from Amelie’s red heels—resonate upon the floor. 

Her short, choppy brown hair is kept from frizzing by black and silver pins—her eyes glistening behind round specs that compliment her round, heart-shaped face. She is unperturbed; _clean_ , you would have felt some increment of envy for the woman, but you chose to spend your time swallowing in your shame. From the brief amount of time examining her disheveled style, you detect that these terrorists’ sleep schedules hadn’t been any better than yours—hell, half the time, you were listening to screamo. Callahan hardly looks bothered when Maisie joins him at his side, sheathing his knife back into his holster.

“Fuckin’ tramp hasn’t quite been broken in yet,” Callahan spits to the floor, and you wince, reeling your head back in disgust as you feel a wad of saliva run down your left knee, “A bloody shame. Waste of a pretty lips, should’ve had her mouth put to better use,”

It seems that you and Maisie share one thing in common; disgust in vulgarity, “How are the other two pricks? They crack down yet or keep telling porkies?”

Maisie, _ever the expressive one_ , shakes her head, “No, the others think you should handle these two. They’re spry but they haven’t demonstrated any DOOMs abilities yet, and say you’re capable.”

There is a hanging silence in the air that finishes when Callahan mutters a curse, scratching his scar. Yet again, you’re strung up in one way or another; you still don’t know who the other two ‘ _sixes_ ’ are, and it was obvious that their numbered labels indicate their DOOMs level. You wonder if they’re any capable of handling these guys, if they’re just as powerful or more so as Higgs. His heavy footsteps aren’t accompanied by Maisie’s much to your chagrin— _she didn’t have food or water_ —and you wonder why she was still here and what she would do.

You haven’t had the pleasure in being tortured by her yet, this should be fun. The mind of a woman could be more tortuous than a man’s, that much was known to you whenever you thought of your mother—she had your father wrapped around her bony fingers. Maybe Maisie was more cunning than she was, a cruel and unforgiving streak that she was just dying to show you after being so damn nonchalant all the time. 

Maisie crouches down to your height, and you prepare for any form of impact.

“He fucked you up pretty bad,” Now that she’s closer to you, you’re able to discern her accent; _Irish_ , “But I promise you, things can be worse if you continue your silence.”

Her hand reaches forward, her skin visibly softer and tender than Callahan’s, and yet you trust her touch way less. Maisie hardly looks offended, she’s like the polar opposite of Callahan who would’ve pummeled you black and blue until you can barely feel his caress. Her pupils are large— _pretty doe eyes_ —and they’re rimmed with hazel. You don’t know her, and she doesn’t know you; maybe even less so, as you can’t perfectly percept that inextricably cold and calloused gaze. Her countenance remains the same, however, you can see there are so many things dancing in translucence. Her hands capture the sides of your face and, before your next faint heartbeat, you strenuously accept her touch.

“I don’t…” You begin but can’t seem to finish for the life of you, and luckily, Maisie silences you by brushing your tears away.

“The report,” Maisie mentions, gesturing a finger towards the cell door that Callahan left through, “What methods did the gobshite get through so far? Can you remember?”

Something tells you not to answer—maybe it was just the pain of even recalling _anything_ —but your mouth reacts before your mind does.

Through a stifled, long breath, you’re able to carefully recount the ‘ _techniques_ ’ Callahan had put you through, “S-sensory and…sleep— _sleep_ deprivation. Solitary…Ice bath i-in a box…walling. He tased me, cut me, b-beat me. And stress— _stress_ positions.”

_How are you still alive?_

Maisie seemed like she wanted to answer that question, too. But, as one of your torturers, you can see that she decided against it. Maybe she did have a gentler, humane streak, after all. And suddenly, all this morbid curiosity that you’ve been suppressing these past few months were taking a physical toll; the overwhelming and misplaced empathy tightening in your chest and the imbalance of trying to perceive a person’s true mien through twitchy eyes. Maisie could sense this—you don’t know how expressive your face was these days—as she lets go of your cheeks, deciding to examine the burnt, carved, and most likely infected injuries littered across your skin. With every bit of contact she made with her slender fingers, _strangely_ , you relaxed with the numbness.

“He’s too much of a proud melter,” Maisie shakes her head, tilting your chin a little to inspect the damage on the column of your neck, “But you’d get used to him if you tried.”

You don’t know if you’re frowning or not, but you know how taut your voice is when you ask, “By being compliant?”

Maisie pulls away a little, hazel eyes fluttering behind unblemished specs—and you can’t tell if she’s offended or bewildered by your willpower. There, she remembers that you’re a zero, a nobody; she doesn’t know you as well as she thinks. You’re not above or below when you haven’t even given out your name yet. Neither one of you has any ground to stand on, and you can tell that Maisie is baffled by this small revelation. 

_I’ve done this for too long_ , you wanted to say, but you choose to keep quiet.

“By being his sister.” 

Immediately— _and lord only knows how_ —a strangled laugh flies out of your lips, and the strain it has on your lungs is excruciating, but the hilarity is greater, “I s-see…no resemblance.”

“Tell that to mum and da, everyone but them could see the difference. Drove the neighbors mad and had to leave our knot because of it, or something, I dunno,” Maisie scoffs lightly, prying her hands away from your skin to shove inside the pockets of her coat, “Where are you from? Not many Americans tend to leave the cities, the Knots. Sure, those fucks don’t know how to wind their neck in, but the living is safer than the dead. Why’d you leave?”

_Now that_ , you think, _that was an answer you truly didn’t know_. Those kinds of reasons undulated. First, it was your parents, which led to solitude. Then, it was Lockne and Mama, your hapless ambition to sever connections from sufferers. And finally, it was Higgs— _for reasons why you’re still trying to figure out_ —just calling him a mass murderer didn’t do justice anymore, it was a disservice. You tried to bury yourself with work, but then you took up a delivery order for him—spiraling the control from your hands even more after he made you stay at his side during Middle Knot’s destruction. Maybe, that was the only answer to give; _Higgs_. Higgs was the answer.

“Your…your bossman,” You answer vaguely, uncaring towards the dubious look that Maisie offers, “Caught up in his mess, stuck with—with him, just like you. W-whether you realize it or not.” 

Maisie doesn’t react. She merely watches you, arms still tucked into her sides with her hands still in her pockets—you don’t know if she’s white-knuckling through it all, though. Even if your assumptions about her own choices down this road were wrong, you were still somewhere in the right; she was still following Higgs’ ideology. The Homo Demens, they were called, _literally_ mad men. _It explained a lot_ , you think while holding in the urge to laugh again, _hell, you’ve even seen it first-hand._

But something about your response spurs Maisie to react; a chuckle. 

“Is it really a better way to live out the end of days by spreading a little chaos?”

Your burning question continues to have this lady terrorist remain solemn and unmoved against your blazing eyes, turns out you had some bit of a spark left, after all. When Maisie had enough of this conversation, she merely threw the report at your knees, still dribbling with Callahan’s venomous spit. She leaves you alone in that cell again, unstrung. There is no silence, only some semblance of white noise that numbs out the pains across your body—leaving you alone again with your thoughts. _You should’ve died out in that storm_ , you thought to yourself with a biting wit, _it would’ve saved so many lives back in Edge Knot._

The heavy metal music that blasts again throughout this cell elicits another horrid scream tear out of your throat.

Callahan comes back to you on the third morning, knife in hand, practically skipping in those muddy leather boots. You wonder then how much sun these terrorists get to enjoy in the morning before torturing you, if anything, you’d even say you miss timefall. It certainly appears as if he was drunk off of sunlight. He’s not in a downright ‘ _tizzy_ ’ anymore, no—it seemed like he was riding the high of accomplishment. That horrendous scar on his face crinkles at the sight of you, feebly pressed against the corner of the cell, the farthest point away from the steel gates, and comes to you in a kneel after long strides. You don’t say anything, but it’s not like you have anything left. You intend to cling onto what was most likely your last morsel of your brazen soul, and if he manages to carve it out of you, then so be it.

With one hand, he levels the tip of the blade between your eyes. It’s significantly more different than being met with the end of a gun’s barrel, though the witticism stays firm on the tip of your tongue that coils with another chock load of venomous spews. _Maybe he’ll gorge my eyes out today_ , you think in a deadpan, _might be a blessing—wouldn’t have to look at that hideous face_. You don’t know what’s got him so riled, maybe Higgs gave the word that he didn’t need a ‘ _zero_ ’. Hell, maybe he figured out that it was you trying to sneak out of the country and decided that if he couldn’t finish you off himself back then, he’d have someone else do it for him now. _Sounds just about right,_ you think somberly, watching Callahan fish into his other pocket, _maybe that’s for the best._

What this British scum of the earth holds out in front of you with his palm is a ring. _The_ ring the stranger gave to you, you emphasize, the azure sky blue winking at you under the angle of these garish light panels. You thought you had lost it upon falling off the mountain, buried in snow. And yet, _there it was_. Your eyes fixate properly upon Callahan who rolls the silvery band between his thumb and index fingers, holding it up to the sliver of light that illuminated the stone toward his scarred eye. For some reason, you felt a sense of wariness that this item was in the hands of someone like him. Then, you wonder why the stranger gave it to you in the first place.

Callahan gleans wickedly, hovering the ring closer towards your face—just in arm’s reach—before he presses the blade deeper into your skin, “Everything about you is so bloody charming, innit? Snatched up, hitched—whatever the fuck. Some poor bloke must be wondering where you are, gutted, worried sick.”

An accusation of marriage, yet another idea to scoff at, “The ring isn’t mine.”

The stone silence exchanged between you two is suffocating, but Callahan deems it as surmountable, able to laugh breathlessly, full of revelry and imperil that makes your skin crawl with goosebumps—finally feeling the cold of the blade; he knows something.

“Then, why was it on your person?” When his question is only responded with a deep scowl, he shoves the twinkling blue gemstone closer towards your face after pulling away his knife, his jolts rigorous and dauntless, “If it’s not yours, who's it then? Is it Higgs’? BRIDGES’? Or the two little shits in the next cell over?”

_The two little shits_ , you reiterate slowly in your head, _the sixes—the Elysian?_

When Callahan soaks in and registers your perplexed countenance—probably deeming it as feigning innocence—he beckons Maisie from behind to open the cell door with a wagging finger. It seemed like all cordiality was gone after that short conversation, but it’s not like you expected anything less. Tucked under her arm is a small monitor, facing it to you where the screen displays a direct livestream of one of the other cells; _Compartment A_. At that moment, you felt like your threshold of remaining resilient to the macabre and morbidity was being tested, enervating your silence by beating the daylights out of someone else; it was precisely what you never wanted in the first place.

Through the flickering blues and cracking white, you can see the visage of the cell block that doesn’t look that much different from yours on a wide scale. At the corner of the wall, you can see the kneeling figure of a young man—possibly a teenager, even—and already you can feel your vehemence surge. _What the actual_ —they’re keeping fucking **_kids_** in this place!? Callahan could clearly perceive your distress, running his thumb over your cheek before sliding the digit down under your chin, forcing you to look at him from the monitor. You can’t keep looking at it, but you _have_ to, it’s what he wants— _absolute sick fuck_.

“That one there was Nimbus Sorin,” He introduces with an overly-done posh accent, and you ignore the ring of familiarity that lingers in the back of your mind, choosing to focus on him solely, “Two out of the three triplet leaders of the Elysian. Supposedly one of your fuckin’ bosses, yeah? Well, yesterday I took the liberty in cracking down on this daft git. Turns out he doesn't know jack shit about our mate Higgs. _So!_ The question is; what is the connection with you?”

_There is none_ , you immediately want to bark, but Callahan’s vice clutch upon your face makes you swallow down any outspoken rebellion in order to save this Nimbus’ life—and all you can do is stare. More vocal noise than static resonates through the speakers of the monitor, and Callahan immediately snatches it from Maisie’s hands—provoking a quiet snarl that goes unnoticed. From there, you can see some sort of resemblance between the two maniacal siblings; their _temper_. The two exhibited little to none patience, and at the slightest provocation are they quick to snap and react aggressively—as long as they got what they wanted. Callahan displayed it through his desire to hear you beg for him to stop; reacting violently when all you did was scream and formed no words. Maisie showed it through the way she walked out of an unwanted conversation so quickly; practically storming out of the room when you questioned her real reasons for coming here.

Inwardly, you wondered if there could’ve been any resemblance to you and Rowan.

He shoves the monitor closer, tapping the gem of the ring lightly against the screen, gesturing to the boy with unkempt, short black hair—slick with sweat and blood. You can’t see his eyes, not from here, but you can see how terrified he was as a pair of armed Homo Demens marched into the cell. A shallow breath is all that’s left in you, the fight that was once so cindering was finally distinguished with your blanched face. The sight of it finally appeased them, relishing in the flinch your body makes when the sound of a gun cocks buzz from the audio feed—and you could’ve _sworn_ you heard something at the end of the hall.

“Nimbus denied any connection with the ring or Higgs,” Callahan finally placed the silver band and blue gem in your trembling palm, “S’got a wee sister, too. Little Nebula Sorin. Unfortunate for him though, she’s easier to break, hardly the looker you are. But that makes things all the fuckin’ easier, doesn’t it? So, either you tell me what it is and these blokes can go back to their little holes in the ground. Or, you don’t tell me and I kill the fucker and his sister, right now.”

Life seemed to harbor some sort of grudge against you; the siblings thematics didn’t seem like a mere coincidence anymore. Every second that you were away from Rowan was spent blaming yourself. You failed to find the one thing in your life who would’ve made up for most of the wrongs. Keeping something pure and innocent, completely untainted, unlike how you came to be, might’ve made you to repent a little more for your sins. You were shot for a reason, saving your baby brother would have helped with forgiveness. You couldn’t do so now, especially with the likes of another pair of siblings. You couldn’t let another bond break apart because of you, no, you absolutely could not let that happen— _even if you didn’t even know them._

“Should I expect anything better if I tell you?” 

The sneer across your mouth brings about another hearty bray from Callahan, each of his claps sharply hitting your ears like lightning, “That depends which answer you give me first, poppet. If you tell me what these Elysian fucks want from you first, maybe I’ll let you sleep tonight. If you tell me what the deal is with this shabby ring, you might get a hot bath. Or…if you tell me what you are to Higgs, I might even fuckin’ let you go.”

_Fuck this_ , you think for the millionth time in your life, _fuck everything._

“I’m…I’m Higgs’ little bird.”

Callahan hardly looks satisfied. For a moment, you were afraid of another violent outburst that could’ve ended with your insides staining the wall. But, Callahan acknowledges your answer. Though he doesn’t express it in his face, his head bobs eagerly, rewarding you unwillingly with his knuckles caressing the side of your jaw. His hand pulls away not long after, bending crookedly; a signal, that finally makes you become aware of the pins and needles prickling the entirety of your legs. Your chin falls into your chest while your tears fly free, unable to look Callahan nor Maisie in the eye now unlike how they did so with you; finally soaking in the collapse of silence.

The sound of a gunshot doesn’t deliver up on Callahan’s promises; you’re still filthy, you still can’t sleep, _you’re **still** here._

You mumble your apologies in the dark to a god, whom you’re positive of, found salvation to your damnation.

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that was aLOT. WHEW. for some reason this chapter was pretty hard to write--I didn't have enough words, lmao. hopefully I did alright on this chapter, it gives some new insight of our poor reader's past. some hints of memories here and there, I honestly can't wait to tell it in full. thank you so much for reading, until next time! much love!


	19. Dèpaysement「19」

## 𝐖𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬

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> The following chapter will consist of dark themes including, violence, torture, trauma, PTSD [ Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder ], heavy language, physical and verbal assault/aggression, and blood/gore. Please, **_read with caution._**

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_It’s…dark as **hell** in here…_

Imagining, being alone in this cold, concrete cell with only your thoughts that struggled to coalesce lucidly, prevented you from comprehending the fear of reality—allaying the fear of the Homo Demens. Some small part of you still hoped that this was all just a bad dream, a long nightmare than a lecture to teach you the value of life or something. An actual lesson worth learning about. That hope was still as real as the acrid taste in your mouth. You’ve been kept here for too long. You’ve swallowed too much creek water, soiled and unfiltered from specks of dirt, moss, and whatever else—possibly even something parasitic could’ve been sitting in your hollow stomach. The stale bread that was given to you was copious— _barely even a necessity in a place like this_ —and when it melded with the repugnant waters, it was emetic. 

You gagged on the thought of digestion alone, even without the added unpleasantness of a hard boot pressing into your broken ribs. No, you chose starvation; an option that only _you_ could control to speed up however much time you have left. You didn’t care if you did or didn’t fight back, not anymore. An empty shell you were, hardly candid towards the beatings you took, unbothered and intrepid at the dreams that have recently merged with consciousness. You didn’t fear them anymore. Instead, you embraced it.

When those two maniacs left, you whispered and sang to yourself that lonely little tune, hoping that the sound of your voice and the memory of your mother’s would slowly guide you back to somewhere different; a new reality where you were away from all this. The music is your only reality. But for now, you dream. Memories in evanesce melancholy fragments that showed yourself trekking under the sun, over hills, running with the wind; _freedom_. You missed that. You wanted to live out the rest of your days in peace with your little brother, plucking him from the hands of your parents to show him that same freedom. 

He didn’t have to be a porter, no, he could do whatever he wanted; as long as he would die peacefully. That was considered the impossible task these days, but you would die giving it to him. The revelation that you need to live first was laughable. _You wanted to live, didn’t you?_ You want to live so you could find him, being a porter was just an added bonus. Money, shelter, connections, essentials were kept at a paucity for your survival and others—you didn’t need what you were going to throw away later; it was even better to not have it at all.

Yet, here you were, fighting between life and death.

_Someone, save me_ , you thought for an hour. _Just let me die_ , you thought in the next. You can’t decide—whether it’s because you had no energy or didn’t want to answer, you don’t know or think much of it later. After you dream, you imagine things again—question them. What do you want in this life? What would be the reason to get out of bed and breathe than getting deliveries done? Than preventing a mass murderer from doing heinous shit like genocide? Trying to find your little brother, who you ended up not finding in the end? Assuming if you ever did find him, what would you do before that? You swallowed the rise of a broken, hysterical fit of laughter. The task itself becomes a hard plight as you choke from the raw, tangy air. 

The realization made you laugh, _everything_ made you laugh. You don’t have any inherent reason, you would just go along the motions to find and pick up the next burdensome thing until it all comes to the end. When you realized it, you were insipid then, just awaiting whatever else came next that was mandated by the particle of God that permeated all of fucking existence. _That bastard sure was mercurial, wasn’t he?_

Surely, he _couldn’t_ have bled you out like a stuck pig, he couldn’t have had so many bruises come into bloom, or shocked you as much to make every nerve in your tattered body to become impervious. No, not with how morose he is. Not when he shared some measure of _affection_ and _favoritism_ for you. All he was capable of was showing benign cruelty in the form of teleportation in a puff of smoke and chiral cinders; a shitty mercy. He didn’t care, you assured yourself like the thought was comforting, he doesn’t care about you. Not like how Callahan and Maisie were like. No, they worked under him—did his bidding, salvaged and relieved some of their own grudges. 

You didn’t expect less; they were notorious, belligerent— _fucking terrorists._ They were capable of other heinous things that you would’ve gotten some sort of kick out of if Higgs had done them. The storm would’ve raged but it keeps rolling, rolling along in the distance. Truthfully, you miss it. You were left to rot then beaten again; they could actually touch you. When they came to you that fourth morning—Callahan wielding that dark beauty before giving it to Maisie—you couldn’t muse yourself any longer when the blade swiveled under these garish lights, before being cleaved into your back.

_What…what are they doing?_

You were gripped and slewed from the wall, your skin shimmering with sanguine and pellucid colors that glistened like ichor, where a coppery stench pervaded into your nose once more. Something cold and taper made your flesh quiver and delve. The object— _Callahan’s knife_ , you realize—sunk beside your shoulder blade. Maisie dug and slashed into your flesh, but you were too tired to perceive any of the pain until after realizing they had stood in front of you inside the cell. You only stared up drably into a malicious gaze that reminded you of the green of summer. Maisie crouched against your knees, showing you those pearly teeth that had upturned upon watching your face morph and fall agape—relishing in the croaky little gasp you make. Blinding hot fire finally seared, and you were rendered into hoarse and laborious breathing.

“Little bird, he named you, did he?” The inflection of Maisie’s voice made every bone in your torso tremor, an ardent cloud brushing against the red tip of your ear, “How lucky you are.”

You lurched forward, your damp forehead smacking against Maisie’s collarbone whilst your hands came up to reach her, “ _S-stop_ … ** _Stop!_** _”_

Callahan came forward next, petting a clump of your tangled hair, twisting one mangled strand with his finger, “Poor Nebula Sorin, cried for hours when we told her what you did to her butchered mess of a brother. Mentioned one word about your refusal and now she’s in a fuckin’ hysteria! Bloody hell, do women have their moments. No point in keeping her now; boss gave the order of interrogating only you, not them. Now, you have two dead people on your conscience than one. Bloody splendid, innit?”

_Fuck_ , you can barely managed to hear what he’s saying over the sound of your blood rushing to your ears. You let Callahan grip the messy tresses and fall into his grip with a sharp wince and nothing else; compliancy. You’ve gotten too many people tangled up in your web of bad blood between you and Higgs, this was the least you could do to atone. It will continue to drip, to soak into the lives of others until one of you finally fucking ends it all, wiping the slate clean. That destiny will be easier for you, unlike Higgs. You were different than him; inept and weaker. Despite the two of you being human, he oscillated to you and the rest of humanity that he was beyond such limitations—that he was better than the rest because he ‘ _found his purpose_ ’. _Fucking bastard_ , you think with some measure of envy. As long as you’re still kept within these infernal confinements, someway or another, you will die.

_You were weak enough to let those siblings die._

“They’ll be headed off to the incinerator tonight, which calls for a celebration,” Maisie gleans through your slightest nuance; a sign of fear again—and you can hear that pleased purr, “A bonfire, imagine that. No one has had the likes of real heat ever since leaving that shit hole of a country—not like they had much to give in the first place, no, the kilns were too far.”

Now, that idea did no such mollification; there was no comfort in celebrating the dead, not to you. Sweltering blood and your memories bleed onto the floor and pours down the curled arch in your spine. _You hate this_. You hate whatever is happening; how Maisie took her sweet time in dragging that blade down your skin, digging, fucking sculpting your flesh into some kind of artistic masterpiece. She burrowed deeper, and you whimpered when you felt the tip of the knife drag against bone. _Fuck_ , you think, _stop being conscious._ _Just pass out._ **_Pass out!_** Until that one conscious thought that promised you relief once you weren’t awake to bear witness to whatever else came next, Maisie had finally finished her engraving and held the knife out to her brother. _Press the steel against my throat_ , you begged when your hand curled to clasp over your ruined back, _let it end already._ You didn’t care about dying or living anymore, no. The boy—Nimbus—and his sister Nebula were already dead. 

Callahan seldom showed some lecherous approach onto your skin, and it was only now did you only bat a tear-threaded eyelash to his advances. You don’t see him lean into the strips of thermal material still clinging onto your back—soaked with tears, hot blood, and whatever else type of filth any of you were capable—and gave a smack onto your side as he brought you to his chest. You flinched; his fingers grazed that cursed place again. The heat of his vest and gear were all you could focus on, this form of bodily contact was highly unappreciated but senselessly needed. It’s warm— _fucking hot as hell_ —and his arm draped over your shoulder to retrieve his precious knife. He stroked his thumb below your eye that was cascading with rolling pearls, letting you catch your hiccupping breath that was too frantic to let out any real screams.

“Flightless but not featherless,” Callahan purrs as much as he seethes, shifting you lower to drag the tip across your other shoulder blade, “A real shame with you, love. Could’ve been spared from so, _so_ much.”

Callahan begins to sever your other wing, and finally, your sweet song pervades the cell.

Maisie hums delectably, planting her palms on your knees before pushing them down, slithering up close to drink in your gasping, painful expression, “There it is! That’s it, songbird. Keep singing.”

The dark beauty wastes no time in plunging the blade down to your bone, the bite of the steel was loud and cold. Callahan’s baleful speed in his carving almost abates the amount of pain from what Maisie had done; she strokes and slices with delicacy— _like cutting some dainty cake_ —while her brother grinds and twists, wielding some kind of animalistic ferocity. Now, you realize why Callahan had held you down against him; not for amorous reasons— _perhaps there might’ve been a little more than you cared to admit_ —but because he knew you would still have some fight left to hack out. You go down kicking and screaming, flailing wildly in his arms with such a violent burst of energy that could’ve been used to oppose these fuckers—but you choose to use impetuosity to keep you from feeling the hellish pain. Gouts stain the edge of Maisie’s tongue after the wet muscle leaves the underside of your jaw, and you can just barely heed to that hapless amount of disgust to notice Maisie’s gaze fixed upon where her brother’s hand rests on your abdomen. 

_Your bullet-wound scar_ , you realize. _No_ , your throat chafes from your attempts to scream louder, hoping to tear Maisie’s attention from the ashen, puckered blemish above your left lumbar region, _don’t fucking touch there!_ The languid motions Maisie traced with her finger around the mark of your parent’s malevolence roused you with incredulity, her touch were uncharacteristically gentle and sanguine; some kind of praise lambent in her fern-green eyes. The pads of her fingers brushed past the newer welts of her brother’s cigar, hardly sparing them a glance, cauterization compared to the damage from a bullet seemed to be a pittance of sentimental worth to her. _How sickening_ , you think to yourself—interrupted by yet another squelching stir in your back that makes you stagger. Callahan is digging deeper.

_“My, my,”_ Maisie purrs with faux sympathy, and Callahan in return looks cynically crestfallen, “What’s this? Looks like you’ve been plucked before.”

The switch from being clement to harsh was without formality; a sharp pinch to the circular mark made all the tendons and muscles in your legs jut out, the likes of a surprised shriek than a horrified scream darting from your lips. _Don’t,_ you plead silently, writhing and trying to squirm out of Callahan’s arms, desperate to wrest your scar from Maisie’s hands—knowing that it would be their next target to carve. Your reaction is purely winsome to the siblings, provoking all sorts of twisted smiles and sinister chuckles that filled every bit of your periphery and echoes cruelly within your ears. On your own stubborn volition, things are finally getting dark with darker memories. You remember things, cursedly. That night in the snow is the only thing that keeps you from floating in the abyss than sinking— _drowning_. The visage of facing your father and his gun that stood in the way of true freedom, it makes you want to survive and fight—it was the only memory you could think of that makes you remember how.

“Which was this one from?” Callahan chuckled into your ear, eliciting a senseless and doughty whine that blows against your chest—your head falling below your shoulders, “Had some sense that you were a porter, you have the gear for it and everything. But I’m not so sure about that now. MULEs don’t shoot, not those fuckin’ blokes. Unlike them—we, _we kill people,”_

This time, Maisie pinches with her nails—long, sharp, and painted red—yet, you hardly flinch, “Who had the delight in putting a bullet in you?”

“I…” _Come on_ , you think, _just answer the question—then they’ll leave you alone._

The waves of blood are rushing to your ears, almost serene and sublime; a promise that beckons you like a prize at the end of the string. It only takes a second for you to realize that it’s death. Death might be the only release, the final resort to escape from the misery and anguish. Strangely, you choose silence. Rumination has its hooks into your back now— _its blade_ , you correct—digging deeper. As you remember things, you also remember the many wrongs; you couldn’t find your baby brother, you let yourself get shot by your father, you’ve spited your mother out of hideous envy and sympathy for having another child. You let Higgs stay in your life— _and look where that got you now._ You save yourself from drowning in these wrongs by dwindling on what could’ve been right. There’s not many, but you try anyway.

You could’ve shown your brother the world—left America with him. You could’ve replied to your father’s message and had some form of closure, talk to your mother, even—reconcile and say that it was your fault. You could’ve run away before Higgs saw you in Middle Knot, saved yourself from becoming his little bird. _Maybe even less so than that,_ you think, you could’ve shot him and…everything could have been over. _Everything_. Feeling regret is perfunctory to you, more often than not. Imagining what could’ve been right makes the pain and the hope greater. They let your body finally fall into unconsciousness, and the memories finally become dark, lapping over your periphery like a rolling shore. You chase the inky waters that might take you to the Beach, _and that’s okay_ , you think, _anywhere else would be better than here_ —even if you might be bound to the black sea. Your ‘ _severed wings_ ’ become numb, and a breeze fuzzies your skin—like feathers.

Your wings are torn, you hate dreaming, you hate the Beach—but for some reason, you want to soar beyond that stormy horizon.

“Please, just let me die.”

Someone omits your plea for release and guides you by the hand to the brink of the shore. _You’re here_ , you think pleasantly, _you’re on the Beach_. It’s a different kind of sinking now, the pebbles resting under your soles click and rumble when you face the greying sea. _It’s better than listening to your bones clicking against steel_ , you remind yourself insipidly, finding someone’s hand folded gingerly over yours. They pull, but it’s also like you’re being pushed. Your movements in comparison to theirs are much less graceful, inert as the skitters of pain are awash with frigidity lapping over your feet and heels, the rush making you teeter. Every minuscule part of your focus flees from your back— _your torn wings_ —and only stares ahead, solely on this person, whose smile you almost impose on to accept. They spin you, wrap their arms around you and lean against your back that provokes a hard, painless wince hissing through clenched teeth—clearly, they’re trying to comfort you. You don’t smell anything—only salt and brine—and you can’t see them. _Why only now are you here? Because you’re flightless? Because they can finally hold you without fear that you might fly away again?_

“You’re still fighting,” The twang in their— **his** —voice is slight, but it provides an unfathomably paltry amount of comfort, “Atta’ girl.”

_**Higgs**_. _It’s Higgs._ _He’s here—he’s **holding** you_. He’s brought you to the Beach. You don’t melt into the stiff, calloused warmth but merely stand there—soaking in the essence of carnage. The praise that left that infernal tongue of his, was any part of it encouraging or cynical? He wasn’t wearing that golden mask that could put any value into your actions, now. The radiance of hope cannot trump the dreadful fear of the latter, and so ultimately, you don’t decide. You wanted to be alone here—it was the only exception you would’ve made should you choose to stay in a place like this—and you certainly didn’t need Higgs’ company. He saved you for a second, yes, but the pain you would wake up to might be two times harder. His levity returns and hovers over your ear in a heated and excited breath, the likes of which makes a shiver rocket down your trembling legs—however much strength you had left in them, you pray they can last long enough on a sprint.

“You know, some people have an angel looking out for em’,” Higgs extends a hand over your shoulder, splaying his fingers to stroke the breeze that swept through the shore, “But, on the other hand, it looks to me like you’re fallen, now.”

What do you say to that? _Fuck_ , what can you say to him? There was some sliver of a chance that your end would come with his newfound temerity in violence—he could crush your _ka_ , devour every last morsel of your soul, especially when you’re this close to him. His arms coiled, slithered around your tattered and incredibly bloody bodice that was sopping with weepy injuries. Extricating yourself from his tight, snake-like grip never did you any good, anyway. What could you get out of running away from him anymore? Higgs was errant, he always was; he knows which buttons to push and how to twist your morals out of proportion, how to beat you into compliance. Truculence didn’t hit you as quick as it normally did. It was bearable, surprisingly; being in his arms. Maybe it was because there wasn’t the slightest trace of tuberose, only the smell of the ocean—this _fucked up, limbo-like_ ocean. 

He spins you again, perhaps he was vexed that you didn’t put up another banter fast enough; he looked displeased and that unnerved you slightly, “I’m gonna assume those aren’t tears of happiness you’re shedding.”

_Happiness?_ You almost want to laugh.

Your hoarse voice is resilient here, yet you’re precarious towards how well you can mask your vindictive ire, “What…what do you want?”

He’s chuckling— _of course, he is_ —and his gloved hand dips closer towards your jaw, “I wanted to see you.”

You snatch Higgs’ wrist, stopping him from touching you again. Somewhere in there, deep in those storm-brewed eyes that have widened upon your defiance, there’s a sense of underlying satisfaction; he’s finally broken you out of docility, you’re _finally_ fighting back. You push his wrist to his chest and shove him away, the tired wrinkles and creases over your brow deepening—it was like pushing smoke, _was he not really here?_ Higgs steps away more than he stumbles, no longer abasing that tiny bit of viciousness you had, humming. The devil on his tongue soothes you with a new song—different than your screams, than your mother’s own comforting tune. Every ebb and flow of the dissonance is new to you and you can’t find the strength to cover your ears. He’s trying to entice you. He wants something, right? Now, he was going to reveal his ulterior motives? _Just fucking end it already_ , your querulous thoughts hopefully blare right out of your head.

He finds faults as he circles you, crossing through the black sand that are no darker than the way his lips curl. Although you appear stony and sullen, working hard to maintain the front that made you oppose Higgs’ advances, he is the one that ultimately sees how broken you really are—starting with your back. Although the knife isn’t there, the work was fresh. They’re leaking rubies, rolling down the edges of what curves that are vulnerable to your sliced cover-alls—you ignore the way his tongue licks the corner of his mouth—and you push down the rail, the heart in your mouth, when Higgs gestures to them. _Your ‘torn wings’_ , you wonder, _was he satisfied with how they looked now?_

“It was always my duty to sever those wings, little bird. Remember that,” _How could I forget, at all?_ “But it wasn’t my choice to make you run away and get captured. That was your choice. That was on you.”

You can almost feel the tip of his finger run down the engraves on your back, the pain—a conflagration, a colorless inferno of his making that didn’t have a speck of divinity that he’d always claimed to own—melting into what parts of your bones that are exposed to the sea breeze. Your wounds don’t allow you to tremble, but merely stand still upon the shore, unable to be washed away by the rolling waves that might offer solace in a new kind of cold. This false propinquity is suffocating, yet you force your tongue to stay still as Higgs’ comes darting from his lips again, a salacious grin and chuckle cleaving you yet again.

“Ooh, how painful those must be,” His cynicism rouses a sense of torment in your chest, “It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. But, my…what poetic justice it serves. Maybe I might drop in and knock you down a few more pegs. Wouldn’t that be just swell?”

Asperity quakes in you— _fucking finally._

You know the quell in your throat is pyrrhic but you glare at him anyway, “Can’t you see that you’ve done enough? _Fuck_ , Higgs. What in the fucking _hell_ do you want from me? What else can I say anymore that I haven’t said to you already? What else are you gonna have your goons do to me!?”

You see red. You’ve never seen red before. It was a different kind of sanguine that filled you up from the crown of your head to the soles of your heels. It made you feel good, relieving an aching itch that made you want to claw and rip apart anything you could get your bloodied hands on. You came chest to chest with Higgs, searching again in that terrible hurricane for the faintest, glimmering crack of vulnerability. Men of his caliber tend to have it in their ego, a plug in the dam that you’re vigorous and eager to rip out just to watch him, or maybe either one of you, fall off the deep end for this mistake. Your seething, breaths of ire fill in between the beats of what could be another one of his ruses, ultimately shoving a finger in his face—ignoring the infuriating fact that no matter where you pointed, you can’t target the exact part of him that had truly broken you.

“The _last_ thing I wanted was to be beaten down by the likes of you!” Higgs steps away— _you fucking bastard_ —away from your anger that singes the edges of your breath that fans against his face ardently, “Neither of us can follow through with our _‘duty’!_ I don’t know if I want to live or die, you can’t decide if you can even kill me or if you’re only supposed to ‘sever my goddamn wings’! Make up your mind! What kind of _god_ can’t make up their fucking mind!? If you can’t do that then why can’t you just leave me _**ALONE!?”**_

An unexpected fissure under your feet makes this distorted realm split, working in tandem with your waves of pure hatred. It hurts, it’s _fucking burning the soul out of you_. Yet, you’re still utterly ravenous to devour the sight of Higgs who wasn’t smiling anymore—his chin is pressed into his chest while his eyes hide away from you, with the help of sheer shadows below his hood. You don’t understand. Was he angry? _Defeated?_ You hone your focus onto the ground that separates you both with a racing, jagged gap that cuts deep into the realm’s crust, elongating across the entire shore that eventually harrows too far out of sight. Your wrath marginally simmers. _Did you do this?_ You’re certain that the surge of your own rancor, you realize, just makes the rupture and collapse of this world spread faster.

Are the two of you too much alike for that? If everything was different and he wasn’t, does that make you any better than him?

“Little bird—“

_“—Stop it!—“_

“—You need to listen to me—“

“—I don’t _need_ to do anything for you!—“

“—You don’t understand—“

“—You never **_let_** me understand!”

Silence.

Pure, _fucking_ silence.

Neither of you move. Neither of you say a word. What was there left to say? This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted _this_ kind of silence. You’ve tested the waters when you two first met, denying him your fear as a city burned in a great, big ball of fire and blood. And now you’re submerged, endlessly sinking, fucking drowning. The collapse in this limbo stops, the crack in this grey world finally ends sharply—you’re certain of this even if you couldn’t see it. What you can see now is the particle of God that permeates all of existence smiling at you, as if blessing you with divine grace. Higgs, you see, is overtly satisfied— _saccharine_ —and the visage sickens you to the scorching hot core that’s filled with volatility, raw anger, and burdened with the idea of purpose… _just like him. **Exactly** like him_. And although you know it’s not a reflection, it still hurts to face him. 

“Why...couldn’t you understand, Higgs? Why couldn’t you have just...left me alone?”

What kind of answer would you get this time? Would he even bother at this point? Higgs’s smile reaches its apex, and movements finally slither towards you—he was waiting. He was like some kind of predator amongst his squirming prey, patient during your instincts to thrash just to capture and twist your neck within his golden jaws. The amiable façade dropped as well as your furious bravado, yet you’re not the one who maintains sinister tendencies. You don’t stop him this time as he raises his hands, cradling the sides of your face—everything he was and is now was ambiguous, and that was terrifying. _Is this the end_ , you wanted to ask, but silence that final coherent thought as this terrorist— _Higgs_ languidly swipes his thumb below your eye. There’s a wetness there, and you loathly accept the gesture—it’s not like you had much of a choice. Not anymore. 

“You’re clever, little bird. But you weren’t always clever enough, were you?”

The jaundice scowl was immediate. But then again, what else kind of answer were you expecting from the likes of him? Higgs pulls away first, gesturing to the end of the Beach where the craggy coast that had split in twain from your anger. You wondered how that was even possible; you’re not a sufferer by any means, and you nearly snorted at the thought. Yet, this course of rumination comes to an end when you see that this so-called hell-scape becomes pristine white. The world shifts, teeters on the scales of purity and infernal—and you witness it all within the blink of an eye.The Beach grows colder. _It’s snow_ , you realize, your head craning to meet the powder white rain that kisses the tip of your nose, freckling across your cheeks, and melting over your brow, _it’s fucking snowing._

The smell of home— _one of those smells_ —you recognize; the stench of crocus. Hope _reeks_ , it’s sour on your nostrils that flare. You look down to find Higgs but you’re instead met with a harsh, whipping white breeze that makes your body flinch and cower. The frigidity is excruciating, this new kind of hell-scape that is chillingly gaunt; and yet, it’s home. Higgs was showing you _your home._ And, when the silhouettes of you and your parents heeds your attention towards the distance, it dawns on you that this was the night when it stopped being just that. This memory—this horrifyingly, corporeal memory is not just a dream anymore. And it comes with another stench; fear. Perhaps Higgs was lending you a part of his otherworldly DOOMs capabilities, however that worked, how else could you recognize that awful smell? It’s acrid like the earthy taste at the back of your throat, it’s unsettling, and completely unnerving as it irately covers every inch of this Beach— _this dream_ — _this **memory**._ It makes you nauseous, swaying with the violence of this blizzard, but you cannot for the life of you, tear your eyes away from your parents. They face you— _the past you_ —looking on in fear as their daughter stands in the snow, unyielding with an all too familiar weapon clutched tightly in your hand.

_No_ , you immediately think, reaching out a hand to stop yourself, completely forgetting about Higgs, _stop it! Stop it! STOP!_

But Higgs is there—he is _always_ _there_ to pull you away.

Your world becomes smothered after the cascading colors of black and white. Higgs’ preliminary precautions begin with his violence, hardly surprising. A single hand— _perhaps it was God’s more than Higgs’_ —fisted into the clump of your hair and forcibly craned your neck from the crumbly mounds of snow. He shifts his weight onto his knee that rests against the small of your back, pinning you—exceeding such a strength that you could not dislodge yourself away from like before—as he makes you concede and watch this absurd corporeal reminisce. You know that Higgs wouldn’t particularly condone any kind of aversion from the sight, not while he remains on top of you—practically caging you under that golden smile of his—and it makes you contrite when you decide to throw your skirmishes into the freezing gusts of wind. Higgs isn’t watching them, you know this for certain by the heated breath tickling against the shell of your ear, he’s watching you. _Every part of you_ , he has under his thumb. Yet, it is terribly hard to focus on him—his hook into your back—merely invested in the shine of the blade that is sopping with red in your clutch. The past you doesn’t know what she’s doing, but _you_ do.

“I know just how cruel you can be, little bird. Don’t you?” The hand entangled in your hair tugs harder, yanking out some semblance of a trembling whimper, “Don’t you remember how utterly ruthless you were here? Momma and daddy really needed something more than a _gun_ to protect themselves from you, didn’t they?”

If the gods had given you the chance, you’d kill him—even if he was a repatriate, you’d butcher him until the end of time.

A vile chuckle, the likes of which that breathes much colder than the snowy storm onto you, is just a prelude that sequences his next darker words with a gesturing, gloved hand, “Perhaps even after that night, you kept that cruel streak going. For around...a year and a half, right? That’s how long it’s been since you lied to Fragile. You cruelly lied to poor, little Fragile; telling her _you_ were the victim. There was a reason daddy pulled the trigger.”

_You didn’t—!_ The ballistic impulses firing in your brains clouded all former judgement of being physically reprimanded by this bastard; and so, you begin to thrash from under his knee, your forehead pressing against snow that simultaneously stretched out your hair from your burning scalp. There are more than just instances of vitriolic pains that come with the memories that flash across your bleary eyes, there was a thundering reluctance in your chest as you thought of running from him. Could you do so? Higgs was the one in control here, wasn’t he? What did running away from him ever solve? What exactly can you do here, besides doing absolute jack shit?

“Higgs! Stop it! I don’t want to—”

The malevolence that this bastard is capable of rises as his hand cradles the sides of your jaw, “—Enough about what you want, girlie. It’s time for you to take what you need.”

His hand thrusts your chin forward, your fervent gaze leveling to your parents who clutch each other desperately. They seek out any remorse within the eyes of the past-you, searching through this aberration for any sign of their once kind and obedient daughter. A part of you was rooting for her—desperate to just scream at her to only run and just don’t look back at them. But the encouraging means to escape die at the tip of your tongue and Higgs gestures again to the main event of this tortuous memory; the sight of you pinning down your mother into the snow, knife in hand, ready to pierce it straight into her freezing and quivering flesh.

_Don’t do it!_ You thrash harder, freeing your jaw from Higgs’ hand, _get the fuck away from her!_

“Poor, poor momma,” Higgs’ nails begin to dig into the gap of your hollowed cheeks, feeling the rows of your canines palpitate within his grip—beginning to relish in the sound of your parents’ frantic screams, “Torn between two of her own progeny. Parenting really is a bitch, ain’t it? Oh, and look, pops ain’t looking so well either. It seemed like dear old dad didn’t leave you with enough fatherly advice,”

The ear-splitting, explosive gunshot of the Desert Eagle in your father’s hand silenced everything within you, rendered completely still as you watched yourself fall into the red snow.

“Surely, you must’ve known that you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight?”

The snow’s brutality finally comes to an end with one last whipping breeze that eventually frees your tangled mess of your hair from Higgs’ vice grip. The scene before you is like some piece of cruel cinema—you’re only there to behold the senses of fear and horror that become awash with your guilt the longer you watch this—and you cannot get up to follow Higgs who uproots himself from your body that becomes quiescent, beginning to saunter toward your ‘ _other_ ’ body lying in the snow. With a single glance towards the east, the sight of your parents fleeing the mountain gives you a new sense of clarity. You didn’t know they had even left that night. 

Perhaps you were too out of it to remember yourself crawling back to the bunker, and it was now a childish sense of hope that you now released; they didn’t carry you back inside and bandage you up, they didn’t show one last act of parental or incumbent love before abandoning you— _you_ , **_you_** did that. You survived on your own. You remembered how to even do that by yourself, thanks to them. They stopped loving you like you did with them. Higgs turned back to you for a second, and for that, you were somewhat thankful. You’re both bleeding, you can clearly see now as the fall of snow is now benign and deafeningly silent, but only one of you has realized your mistake. Your body inanely sinks deeper into the red and white field, watching as Higgs crouches beside your past’s bleeding and gasping form. _You didn’t know me then_ , you thought briskly, gathering clumps of snow that mold into hapless shapes from your tightened, trembling fists, _could you kill me then? We didn’t know each other—we still don’t, Higgs. Please..._

“You were going to carve your brother right out of her, weren’t you?” Higgs’ hand begins to hover over your fresh lesion, tracing translucent circles around the sopping red entrance wound, “You didn’t know what else to do, how else to save your precious baby brother from the smothering of your parents. So, you were just gonna take him and leave. You were willing to rip apart the both of you from your parents,”

Your back flares again with pain, but it only provokes a gasping, hollowed whimper as your focus is too inured to Higgs’ sardonic and cynical words, “But even so, you knew he would’ve died right then and there. He wouldn’t have lasted a second out of the womb and you knew that. Tell me I’m wrong. Look at you, sweetheart. You would have rather let him die than spend even a second with your parents. Oh, little bird...how utterly... _awful_ of you,”

The fade of this memory has finally come with a phantasmic wash of garish colors. A laconic, twisted idea pandered to the thought of a desire that you didn’t want this horrendous dream to end— _this might be what you truly deserved_ —not physical, but something emotional. Something that can burn the heart out of you and leave nothing behind, not even a speck of ash. It takes a second, and only a second, for the entirety of this Beach to be encompassed by complete darkness. You’re left on your stomach where Higgs had left you, your hands free of clustered balls of snow and are completely deprived of frigidity—it’s all just empty, now, complete and utter stillness. You’re still here, rolling through the motions while the waves of pain add onto your lachrymose and silent anguish. You’re still alive, but you can no longer decide if that was your main goal anymore. Staring ahead, you see him again—and he’s staring at you, too. Higgs’ body doesn’t melt into the floor that ripples with every step he takes, if anything, he sways with them. And then, he jumps. Chiral cinders flitter and return to the void that makes your heart skitter when his golden maw reflects the edges of your gaze.

Tentative and deft hands hold your face, and Higgs was the utmost careful with you. He handles you like a piece of glass, like the ubiquitous world rested in his palms and all apprehension in crushing it in his fists was alight in his movements. The two of you rise until the force of gravity is completely lost in the black, he also raises what part of you that had been sinking and drowning—your undulating judgement that becomes mindlessly numb from his outlandish caress. You remember the dream you had of him, entangled lecherously—the feeling of his tongue running across the bottom of your lip—brutality in his intimate gestures. _It was just like this_ , your mind reels in a broken state, and Higgs bears witness to all of it.

“We cannot be better than them, little bird,” Golden lips press against your own, “But we can become so much worse.”

You two are so alike...I’d almost hate to see it end.

A primal, raw burst of fervor comes off in waves from your body that Higgs nearly drops. The ardent sensation was not quite made of passion but of plethoric mania. Whatever the fuck it was, it strikes the two of you like lightning—you yank yourself away from Higgs who stopped rising, stuttering—convulsing under the pressure of the void and what the two of you had done. Every syllable of coherent thoughts pound into your head, and the spread of adrenaline is electric in your veins. They asked why you let such a thing happen, chastised you about how you could ever manage to submit to a terrorist, prayed for forgiveness when you realized how far you’ve fallen. And then another echoey thought; _what could be done for you and Rowan?_

Your eyes pried open, staring back at the rows of gold teeth that now reflect the entirety of your teary face. Rowan. _Rowan?_ Nothing could be done, right? He’s gone— ** _you’re_** _gone_. _Why would you_ —your eyes flutter to Higgs who finally regained control of himself, stretching out his palm that begins to level and grasp at you. _Those weren’t **your** thoughts_, you realize. _What is this?_ You never told him any of this, it dawns on you as Higgs’ hand looms closer towards your throat, how could he have known what happened that night? How did he know about your parents in the first place? How did Higgs know that your parents left before you realized it just now—these were _your_ memories. You didn’t know him then, he doesn’t...he **couldn’t** have known.

The Beach flashes white, and Amelie closes in on you within the blackening void.

_This wasn’t Higgs._

That’s why you couldn’t smell tuberose. In that instant, your disembodied psyche snaps together—the entirety of your ka pulls you from the Beach—the dream, the memory, from Higgs. From Amelie. You brace yourself as you begin to fall back into the melting colors, returning back to your ha lying in that cell. You plummet head-first from the Extinction Entity who becomes banefully desperate to keep you from waking—from returning to the world that hadn’t fallen yet. Higgs’ form finally melts down into the visage of Amelie—his true master, the one behind everything—and yet, thankfully, you’re hardly even surprised. Amelie did this. This realm of dreams finally collapses from your elucidation, giving you one impervious moment of solidarity that this ‘ _Higgs_ ’ was a **lie**. It was fucking Amelie pulling the wool over your eyes, and it elicited a sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could come out of this— _out of everything_ —alive and scathed. Amelie’s stony pleas are lost in the wind that soon become nonexistent; you were waking up. You’re cutting loose from her grips and it was about _fucking_ time. You can’t hear her anymore, already feeling the heaviness in your eyelids that need just one ounce of movement that’ll bring you into consciousness completely, and it was evident from the surges of pain flowing across your back again. 

_Higgs wasn’t the one showing you this,_ you remind yourself, _but he was the one who approved of severing your wings._

_Fuck the both of them_ , you laugh—finally peeling your eyes open from slumber to find Callahan and Maisie standing in the doorway, smiling at you, _fuck everything._

They said that you were unconscious throughout the entire day, welcoming you to the fifth morning. _Jesus_ , you thought, _I was asleep for a whole day but I still feel like shit._ Callahan was exceptionally thrilled when you finally came to, groggy from exhaustion and writhing desperately across the cooling, concrete floors that provided some relieving alleviation to the sweltering, sanguine carvings in your back. He provided some extra misery to the lesions as a wake-up call, a form of punishment for passing out on them when an entire day of fun was spoiled because you couldn’t keep your eyes open. Maisie was particularly furious, denying anything to slake your thirst and get rid of the terrible cottonmouth—instead, gifting you with a nasty tasing at the tip of your right severed wing. That morning, you’re unfortunate that the eruption of infernal pain cannot induce unconsciousness this time—not with the injection of epinephrine they gave you. This caliber of agony was different now, there were no everlasting dreams, thoughts, or questions that you had to ask yourself after each time you’re left alone again. It seemed that the revelation that the visit to the Beach was a lie hit you _too_ hard. But then again, do you have any reason to complain?

Yet, in the end, you’re the one holding in the groan at the back of your parched throat as Callahan finally finishes etching the word _‘little bird’_ around the entire fucking circumference of your bullet wound scar—exacerbating your anguish, “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to cut our fun early tonight, poppet. A real fuckin’ shame with you, passing out on us. You burnt so much of our precious, bloody daylight. But it’s time to celebrate, innit? Our glorious fuckin’ bonfire,”

Callahan dabs the tip of the knife on his tongue that was still wet with blood, finally producing some part of that disgusted groan, “And it’s all thanks to you, love. Rest in fuckin’ pieces, Nimbus and Nebula Sorin.”

What would happen to you after tonight? What other leverages might they present to you after their little bonfire? Whatever fate the other Elysian might face while being bereft of leadership brings what you might perceive as survivor’s guilt. _It should’ve been you_ , you thought somberly, meanwhile you had braced your left leg for another deep engrave by Callahan’s dark beauty, they were just kids, they didn’t have to die— _certainly not because of you._ Why would you expect anything less after telling them you were Higgs’ _‘little bird’?_ It didn’t give them any real answers, just new ideas that would ruin whatever body parts you have left—it was all just a fucking joke. There was a sound at the end of the corridor; Maisie’s heels clicked before tapping at the frame of the steel bars. She had a scowl of impatience, earning her brother’s attention only after her bruised knuckles pounded the edges of steel, and when he finally tossed his head over his shoulder—bearing a rather impatient scowl himself built on spite for his sister’s interruption—you knew then that something was wrong.

Yet, that doesn’t stop you from having a little fun; aiming a wad of spit and blood onto the nape of Callahan’s neck. And although that earned you a pretty brutal fist to the cheek, you were rather appreciative of the stifled snort Maisie gave as her brother turned back around again.

There were more of just them this time. Two armed terrorists clad in dark vests and darker gold stripes were at her side, and you wonder if Maisie was an arrogate-type of person around these parts. You remember the few who questioned Callahan’s supervision over this ‘ _enterprise_ ’ while you were tied up in the cicada, and surely, his sister wouldn’t be any different. _Bitch_ , you think, spitting rubies onto the floor, adding onto the puddles and stains. There was a cognizant pause between the two before Maisie made a quick gesture towards you to her guards, and the march forward by these metallic, brutal men made you all the more anxious. Swallowing down any barks of invective or vehemence for being man-handled—more of being tossed around like a fucking _ragdoll_ —the woolen bag over your head was a familiar obscurity that prevented you from knowing your ultimate destination. You were hoisted and dragged by your arms, the tips of your toes dragging and knocking into each other of what you assumed to be the end of the corridor. Somewhere within whatever was left of your hope, you prayed you’d see the sun again.

It feels like they’re dragging you to the edge of the world— _how fucking big was this place?_ At this point, you’re more concerned about one of these pricks stepping on your toes than what could be awaiting for you in the next hour or so. There is an undulation in chatter within your surroundings; groups of people are everywhere, **_terrorists_** are _everywhere_. They couldn’t possibly be inviting you to their celebration, _could they?_ The last thing you’d want is to be anywhere near joyous laughter, baneful conversations or talk of ‘ _evil plans_ ’, huddling around a burning corpse, and you absolutely did not want to be around pizza. An involuntary snort throttles in your chest, an entirely new and overdue reaction that it almost felt foreign entirely. Your thoughts dwindle towards the drunken video message that Higgs sent you, chucking an entire pizza at someone—where you somewhat hoped to meet the poor bastard here. Yet, you still don’t give into the idea of becoming a reveler among them. The air around you becomes much more than thick and suffocating, the heat reaching your legs that are almost stripped bare and still slick with blood. The ardency had a rather relieving effect; turning whatever was red and soiled into dry, fissuring cracks across your skin, stretching and pulling your numbingly aching body tight. In a way, you felt better. Warmth seared over your skin, soon enough, though the singe was more than you’d like. 

There are flickers of yellowing lights and brighter, longer phosphenes that occupied the darkness within this woolen bag. You breathe for good measure to steady your nerves, twisting whatever was left you could feel of your muscles as the guards’ grips on you were almost cruel. The mess of your hair draping over your eyes provided more uncertainty than the bag did as it finally yanked off your head, and with your chin digging into your collarbone, there was no possible idea of where they would’ve taken you. But clicking heels provide an incentive to raise your eyes; Maisie’s there, of course she is. A plume of smoke fans against you as your hair begins to part. The musty, burning scent provokes something in your chest that sputters out in a violent coughing fit, and Maisie quirks an impatient brow. A burst of fire billows from behind her, and you almost mistaken her for some hellish deity, turning the other cheek to see a smoking vault—a kiln.

_They...they were going to burn you, too._

“String her up in slot B, keep the chains tight around the wrists, ” Maisie directs the men carrying you towards yet another cell—no concrete walls but merely an iron cage, incredibly smaller than the last, “Only our Lord knows what’s gonna happen with the rest of her.”

“I don’t typically like being kept in suspense,” You shout hoarsely, yanking your throbbing arms away from the men who led you into the cell and cuff you, glaring at her between bars, “Mind telling me, clearly, what the verdict is on my life that your fucking bossman gave you?”

Maisie raises her hand to shut the cell door, and from the distance, you flinch as another plume of smoke and fire permeates the air, just barely being sucked up and filtered by the ceiling’s ventilation, “No point in us fussing over a pile of ash.”

You almost have the strength to scoff, temerity seething through your clenched jaw, “And here I thought you still needed me.”

Many other rueful thoughts cluster in a swarm of uncertainty and brace the heat that would melt the skin off your bones. Surely, it couldn’t be that bad. The engineers and architects these days are all the rage of how efficient and quick their manufacture is—there was no room for corporation exhibitionism or deception—and you’re almost certain that the circle of terrorists stretched far to get their hands on an actual, working incinerator. Evanescent fragments of memories cloud your apprehension, thinking back to the fewer times when you were commissioned for corpse disposal. _Bad days_ , you grimace, _bad days for us all, back then._ Even now, it was no different; your end would surely be no different than any other corpse you burned. What made you docile, at least, was the hope that the fire would take your mind first. Then, everything would be momentary, a mere sting. Like pricking your finger on a needle. You swallow down the rise of bile as you face yet another brutal cloud of smoke fans against your cheeks, flinching back further as the remaining violent cinders flew from the fierce conflagration seeping behind steel doors of a cradle. A needle prick—from a _very **large** needle_...that just might **_impale_** you. _For fuck’s sake._ Your senses are dialed to eleven, switching between glances with Maisie’s abrasive stare and flaxen-yellow shades on ribboned helmets, yet a harder snort stutters throughout your chest. _Seriously, did Higgs pick that ridiculous get-up or—_

“We _do_ need you,” Maisie pauses, giving a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders, “Well...most of you. Callahan’s going off on a limb here—fucking acting the maggot for us—and figured...you won’t spill anything useful as long as all of yours remain... _still attached_. Burning than cutting was my idea, you’ve already gone through plenty of that.”

Your back reactively flares again with an indescribable amount of pain, and yet you endure the rolling surge with an even harder glare, “And if I don’t survive? Should I save a seat for you in hell if Higgs finds out about what you fucking morons did to his _‘little bird’?”_

You hate how you referred that stupid name to yourself, and it was as if _that_ wasn’t the worst possible case scenario; Maisie’s grin justifies your rueful thought, “I think he’d enjoy you more if you’re completely featherless, fledgeling. You _already_ can’t fly. Besides, who’d want a pet that only runs away?”

_First thing tomorrow_ , Maisie mouths her promise—and you already can feel your heart weigh down from the dread of her words. She fishes her hand into the pocket of her trenchcoat, her lips stretching chillingly as she procures a familiar object. It winks an azure sky blue and you clench your jaw; it’s that goddamn ring again. You look on with resentment and impatience as Maisie withelds both the ring and an explanation, holding the silvery band up to the light with great interest and cupidity. Though, with a grieving and dramatic sigh, she sets the piece down on a credence table.

“The lapis lazuli enhances insight, awareness, and truth,” Maisie explains with a deep, humdrum tone, and you try valiantly to not shiver under the sleet of ice crawling through your veins, “It provides _clarity_...how terrible it must be for you to hold it in your hands while you burn.”

Maisie shakes her head and clicks her tongue tauntingly, before breathing out a guffaw of laughter when you yank at the chains, lurching forward as you see red and yearn for more. The terrorists finally leave to uphold their celebrations for tonight, marching forward and out of the incineration facility that is terrifying yet somehow better than your previous cell. There was the sun, actually _real_ fucking _**sunlight**_ , that splays across the floor in perfectly symmetrical, elongated shards and patterns—they might never touch you, let alone reach the very corner of the cell near you, but you’re grateful to even see this speck of natural forces. The crackling of fire is yet another thing to be grateful for, almost forgetting the fact that you were scheduled to be thrown in there ‘ _first thing tomorrow_ ’—hell, it somewhat helps lulling you to sleep. It was still absolutely better than screamo blasting in your ears. _Fuck_ —this almost felt nice— _what in the actual fuck did they do to you?_ _Jesus_ , you’d commit manslaughter for a trip to the hot springs. You’d rather not dwindle on that kind of question— _or hopes, at that point_ —the abrading of your skin against these cuffs becomes your focal point instead.

It occurs to you in the next instance of silence that you’ve never actually seen your wounds. Did they look as bad as they felt? _God, you hoped not._ They’d make the other scars on your body from the MULEs and pointy rocks look like beauty marks. Your head dipped low to examine your legs, too tired to even raise them—finding a number of unpleasant, pulpy wounds, cuts, and lesions that shimmers in this better lighting, bringing another rush of bile crawling up your throat that you swallow down with a tired pant. A mess of red, crusted browns, hideous violets, and dim yellows stain and soak every surface of your body and you couldn’t be more disgusted. Callahan messed you up good. You’re hardly wearing anything anymore—your thermal uniform is torn to shreds and you’re practically shielding yourself from these malicious gazes with ribbons. Though, they’re better than the ones the other terrorists had, you’re confident about that. Stretching your neck out to the side, you find the steel doors again, shielding away those violent and rumbling plumes of fire. _How painful would it be?_ It couldn’t be worse than your back, no, your back was the very **worst** part.

The excruciating, searing pain brings the memory of Nimbus Sorin, haunts the ringing in your ears as it begins to turn into a mixture of crackling gunshots—snow and steel. How could you let them die? They have people, don’t they? Other friends and sufferers to get back to, in need of leadership— _how could you take that away from them by not opening up your mouth?_ Your mind is restless and hazy, terribly aching from everything that has occurred to you all in a single week; get captured, tortured, betrayed every single person you’ve ever met, put up with some reconciling bullshit with your father who tried to gun you down, and finally receive the wish for death by none other than Higgs _fucking_ Monaghan. Not even the fleeting affection for the lonely tune you picked off your mother could do no comfort. Summarizing all that— _heck, maybe it was even the blood loss from your back_ —finally makes you drift into slumber. Maybe it all wasn’t just wishful thinking.

_And maybe...just maybe...at this, the lowest point of your life, seeing Higgs one last time wasn’t either._

_Was it though?_

**_𝐊𝐀-𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐌!_ **

There was an explosion, _of course there was._ This day was just getting better and better, wasn’t it? Fate was just full of diverting expectations; the pain you could’ve anticipated wouldn’t have been from some giant, impaling needle, no. It was more like a fucking sword that could’ve hacked you into pieces and twisted you from the inside-out— _yeah, that was a much better way of phrasing it._ Your eyes slowly leveraged open, still full of sleep despite a literal crumbling explosion erupted from across the other end of the facility, and only through an exhausted, hazy stare can you find a cluster of silhouettes in the dusty clearing. They move in numbers—three in the back, two in the middle, and one in the front—they adversely scatter the facility in their groupings while the singular, shadowy entity comes the closest to you. They look too thin to be a terrorist, you note, somewhat grateful that you wouldn’t have to see another ribboned get-up again. Your heart skitters with just a sliver of hope, wordlessly gaping as they lower to the ground and onto the kiln’s steel doors before throwing them open—strangely, you think you see a tendril of some kind that muscled the hatch off the hinges, but you are too enthralled by the whipping cloud of smoke that finally blows the drowsiness from your sight. You see them— ** _her_** —standing from the kiln before turning to you, long, flowing black hair framing an expression of pure vehemence. She sees you— _someone **real** and wasn’t just a fucking illusion_—you almost want to cry for joy, but you know involuntarily that the well has gone up and dry. Your hands twist and coil around the chains that kept you strung up from the ceiling, tugging at them desperately—brazenly piteous.

She looks significantly younger than you— _eighteen, perhaps?_ —but you perceive from her calloused and nearly apathetic stare that she might be wiser beyond her years. Her hand goes up, signaling two fingers forward—she’s military-trained, _to some extent_ —and the pair of the groupings round to her side, the barrels of loaded rifles pointing in the air and then to you. You don’t cower at the sight of weaponry—you’ve done enough of that already. They don plain, red masks—there’s no telling just who they might be, but you’d rather be grateful than clueless. They sling their guns onto their back and take hold of iron crowbars clasped on their belt, shoving the blunt crook into the edges and, with minimal effort, they pop the iron bars off the hinges. And for an instance, there was more than just smoke and fire in the air. A taste of freedom, you might say, but you’d rather deem it as hope. The girl moves first while the other two step back, making way for their apparent leader, you realize. Her eyes are crystal blue, deep pools of a raging sea that you nearly drown in before she gestures her hand forward again, and her allies—possibly even her subordinates—fire rounds into the chains. You’re no longer— _you’re finally fucking **free.**_

Although your countenance is too tired to put up an indifferent front, the girl remains solemn while her movements are sharp and fervent—directing her company towards the other cells surrounding yours. They perform a thorough inspection, looking for something— _someone?_ But you cannot, for the life of you, discern just what is happening.

“Th-thank... _Thank you.”_ Your words are rasping, stability nearly completely lost on you by the way your trembling tone undulates as you fold one tentative hand over the other—careful not to peel away any more of your red, swollen skin.

Her gunmen marched from out of the cells, procuring nothing of value, “Nothing’s here, ma’am. The smoke is still clean.”

Finally, her lips part, revealing a forked-tongue dolloped with round, silvery piercings, “Not for long,” Her hand raises, and so does a tar-like appendage on her hip—a signal to all of her troops, “Tag the walls.”

Her men move quickly out of the cell—the entirety of the troops blend into the dark clouds and avoid detection easily despite their incredibly vibrant masks, while you two were left out in the open. Once the faded grey disperses, you see mechanical devices strung up along the walls of the facility, minding the glass windows but strangely, not the door—burlap sacks hanging from every visible machine that come with a terrible, sulfuric odor. You see all that from just a glance over the girl’s shoulder who never drops her gaze and takes a step forward, and you stagger to the other end of the cell, holding your wrists to your chest with wide, fearful eyes. The apathy of her expression somewhat reminds you of Maisie, and you fear of provoking a silent temper. What—what was she going to do to you? You don’t plan on becoming yet another captive for some fucked up group, no thank you. 

“You look like you don’t want to be here as much as I do,” The girl coos to you in a much gentler tone than her abrasive shouts of command, her steps forward becoming tentative and calculated—on the upside, she wasn’t wearing heels but hard, study boots, “Try anything and I’ll dismember what’s left of you.”

“ _I-I don’t_ —I’m not one of them!” Her movements are careful—a complete aberration—and what comes rasping out of your desiccated throat is entirely uncontrollable blubbering to this new encounter, “Just— _fuck_ —please! Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me anymore! I’m—I’m on...I’m on _your_ side!”

The girl’s face contorted into that of suspicion and pure incredulity, eyes narrowing and the crease of her furrowed brows deepened, “Nobody is ever on our side.”

_**Elysians**_ , your mind clicks together when what other coherent escape ideas goes up in yet another cloud of smoke with the sound of commands, clicking metal, and loading weapons echo throughout the decrepit edifice, _they’re the Elysians. Sufferers. DOOMs-users._ That profound revelation does somewhat explain the inky black tendril coiling around the girl’s hip, appearing otherworldly and grotesque around the capability of the mundane part of humanity. You peer over her shoulder again to find the source of the baneful noises; seeing in the dusty clearing that another troop of shadows— _terrorists_ —begin to make their investigative rounds, knees low and rifles up as they storm through the facility. All caution now between the Elysian and the Homo Demens are thrown into the wind, and for the first time, choosing to safeguard your own survival was not a viable option here— _who would you trust?_ A group of terrorists who have completely broken everything you are? Or the pack of scruffy, super-powered, masked teenagers who’re probably _way_ too inexperienced to handle rifles? You’d go with the latter. The girl shoved you behind her back with the utmost haste, stretching a splayed hand forward whilst extending that vigorous tar-black appendage, working in tandem with her striking movements. At this case of propinquity, with your fingers curling and gripping at the girl’s padded vest, you can feel the radiation of a surging, unearthly energy. It’s like a heat wave, inducing a sweltering and suffocating sensation that might as well have been hotter than any fire or sun you’ve trekked under—but it doesn’t stop you from paling and cowering at the sound of bullets impacting the sinuous tar-like appendage with a sickening, wet squelch. 

_They’re fucking—this was a fucking **break-out!**_

“Get down!”

From behind someone’s back and onto the floor, yet again, you’re being handled like a fucking ragdoll. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a quick absconsion, but at this point, you’re willing to run through fire in order to escape from this— _all the pain_. Bullets ricochet off the concrete, clattering and rolling around your knees. You huddle even closer towards the girl’s bicep that was still stretched and firm, and the oily mass twisted outside the opening of the cell to deflect yet another raining barrage of shells. It continues to grow, splaying bigger against the ardent and exhilarating intensity of the air— _can all sufferers do something like this?_ The girl’s wrist snaps downward and the appendage darts forward, splitting in twain, onto the heads of the two closest terrorists. You clasp a hand over your mouth to muffle down a hoarse shriek as you watched the long, sludge-like ropes coil perniciously, and twist their heads completely backwards. _If Higgs was capable of such a thing, too, then there really must’ve been an angel sticking their neck out for you._ Your phlegmatic companion shuddered under the weight of her own abilities, you could see, the beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and clumped her long, black hair together looked all the more humid, and with two fingers between her lips, your ears pounded chillingly against the sound of an echoing, sharp whistle and a series of shrill explosives that rutted up the steel walls.

Although it provided cover as a swarm of glittering smoke and fire obscured the visions of both parties, it was especially harsh on you; your body had convulsed and arched under these piercing noises. However, taking the time to withstand this excruciating form of over-stimulus didn’t fit well with the girl’s multifarious agenda, quickly slewing your body closer to stuff something over your head. _Again with this shit?_ Nevertheless, the sounds dimmer and the painful ringing softens under this new texture that scrapes across your cheeks; it was rubber, you realize as you begin to blink, _it was a gas-mask!_ Your gaze narrows through protective lenses that darken most of your vision, but the visage of the girl and her gripping touch around your arm guides you towards the heart of the chaos on stumbling and crooked knees.

“Come on, snake-bite. The only way out of this is through.”

The world in your eyes shimmered in bursts of gold and black—colors that you’ve come to hate but never become so pejorative about. Yet, you manage to maneuver on stumbling legs and crooked knees to reach the edge of the credence table, procuring and pocketing the ring that had still glistened so brilliantly within the dark, glittering clouds. _Better safe than sorry_ , you think, barreling yourself out of the cage to follow behind the girl. Her appendage works in threes, splitting and darting into whoever and whatever came close to twist their bodies in unbelievably gruesome and impossible angles. Bodies begin to spill over your feet the closer the two of you ran to the faintest spot of sunlight, and you thought that you were wandering through the greying darkness of a dream— _it wouldn’t be the first time._ The gunfire resounded all around you but it never came close, and the acute fire licking up the tenderness in your muscles began to grow hotter, such irritable pains were almost as bad as your harrowed backside. However, the girl doesn’t notice the cankering pus and sticky blood oozing down your side as she guided you closer into the dark, honing more of her focus into her set of tendrils that darted forward again, and this time, you can just barely see the appendage pierce straight through the vested gullet of a terrorist. It raised him up, _up, and up_ —until you can hear that shriek of clashing metal and a visceral scream, shuddering upon the rain of blood that completely soaks down everyone. 

Your wrist, dripping with blood, ultimately, slips from the girl’s grasp as the two of you enter the middle field. Through the lenses of the gas-mask, it’s hard to even tell which way was up, and the pellucid conception of panic fuels what you’d hope was adrenaline rather than cowardice. You run forward, staggering mindlessly as you try to search for your guide—possibly your psychotic savior, but you didn’t give a fuck about that—and a guttural yelp flies from your split and bruised lips when you run into someone. The end of a rifle is stuck between your eyes and your panic— _or cowardice_ —becomes clashing and visibly expressive; a Homo Demen has you in his sights. 

“Get back! Get back in your cell!” It’s a voice you recognize, inconveniently, _it was the trigger-happy fuck who sat beside you in the cicada_ —though, you could’ve figured it out without his voice, brandishing the gun and waving it around so frantically was a tell-tale sign, “Get the fuck back in your cell!”

Before the bastard could get his rocks off by putting a bullet in your face, the weapon is thwarted by a familiar, serpentine-like appendage, knocked right out of his hands and swallowed into the opaque smoke. Your hands work before your mind does; grabbing ahold of the end of his hand before tugging them back, eliciting yet another visceral grunt of pain that somewhat brings a certain kind of music to your ears. Your instincts register the sensation of your aching forearm clashing together with his, and you panickedly shove him away—right down onto his knees and you hoist your throbbing leg up high to slam your heel down into his jaw. Blood pools from the gaps of where his two front teeth used to be, and you’re certain he’s choking on them, given by the low, muffled gargling escaping his now-ruined throat.

A strangled, shaky exhale out through your nose is interrupted by the girl again, coming to your side from the distant clearing—the way she grabs ahold of you, checking your face for newer, fresher injuries comes to you as a shock, but again, _her time is short_. She pulls you away from the terrorist, and you ignore almost everything—ignoring the fact that you had just killed someone. You killed someone who was _not_ a repatriate. _You **murdered** another human being._ You suck in another breath and keep going, there’s no stopping you, now— _you’re so close, so fucking close._ You bolt through the aperture, and the faint light of freedom finally becomes blinding, taking a brief second to adjust your lacrimal gaze to the outside world again.

**_You’re free._ **

* * *

three weeks. _three weeks_ to get this piece of work out. oh jeez, oh Jesus, oh lord, _baby_ \-- **OOF**. I am so sorry for the wait! School and life has been such a piece of shit lately but writing was the only thing that kept my spirits up. Thank you all so, so, SO much for your patience and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I appreciate every single one of you and I hope you bear with me for the next update. [ I actually had to shave off the last few bits of this chapter bc not posting was literally killing me on the inside. ]

a lot has happened so far, huh? so many questions, so many mysteries, so much angst-- **AHH** \--

until next time, little birds. Much love! <3


	20. Nepenthe「20」

## 𝐖𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

_Run. Fucking **run**._

What semblance of pure fucking joy goes up and joins the waft of smoke and detritus blowing behind your back. The final detonation took out whatever was left of the incinerator, but you don’t need to turn around to know that. Metal clicks against metal again, but this time, the noise drew against the back of your head. It doesn’t take long for the girl to take notice why you’ve stopped in your tracks and wasn’t a few steps ahead; having the same issue with the back of her head, too. Two more closing in, you hear from behind, along with the alarmed shout for the girl, your savior— _Admiral_ , she was called. It sparks a burst of unyielding and hysterical violence in her appendage that strikes against her own assailant, the tarry rope sweeping the leg from under the terrorist that unleashed a round of bullets into the air, inducing your carnal aptitude again. She’s got people to protect, you remember, unlike you. _Just like last time, you’ve done this before._ Encouraging yourself wasn’t a strong suit, but _hey_ , you’ve come this far, _you can do it again, come on!_

From down to the last nerve of your wretched body, it takes everything within you not to collapse as your head and body briskly spins—thwarting yourself away from the gun and, unfortunately, in propinquity with the terrorist who staggers. Your arm hooks around his elbow while your other hand tightens and delivers overwrought blows to the jugular. With one final, clumsy pivot of your wrist, you manage to disarm the rifle from his grip, kicking him down onto his backside before stumbling away.

“Hey, snake-bite! Quit pulling your punches!” The Admiral shouts in your direction, and her countenance is rather impatient, to say the least, her hands occupied with twisting the inside of the terrorist’s spilling guts—his small intestine rolling down to his thighs— _yeah, you’re **not** eating tonight._

You’re waylaid into responding with a half-assed remark as the terrorist weakly wraps his hand around your ankle. With a panicked gasp, you grip the hand-guard of the rifle and swing it upward. The buttstock clocks him right under the chin, and your wide eyes follow the descent in his collapse and, most likely, moment of death. Yet another terrorist you’ve left bleeding from the mouth, _but then again_ , at least you don’t have to put up with anymore of their bullshit shouting commands. 

_“Huh,”_ You utter breathlessly, readjusting your hold on the weapon before sending the impatient and hardly impressed Admiral a shrug, “Home-run.”

Footsteps— _multiple boots smacking and pounding against the wet earth_ —gather your attention; the sound of her troop, marching forward while some had either lost or chipped their blood-red masks, was somehow mellifluous. They come with the stench of war; a miasmic sulfuric odor that you easily recognize, the smell being the same as whatever was inside the burlap sacks hung around the explosive devices and permeated the air of this territory.. It had coated the entirety of their gear, reeking in it—yet truthfully, their visitation was amiable. One of them, another woman who looked much older with olive-skin and a scarred, right green eye came forth to the Admiral, holding out a manilla folder marked ‘ ** _WIND_** ’ in big, bolded-red letters, who took it with haste.

“Either the Sergeant sent us on a red-herring or he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore,” The woman’s vitriolic grumble hit your ears and you’re reluctant towards the idea that it’s directed to you—though, her tossed glare in your direction sparks some semblance of umbrage, “But the payload is marked for Compartment A, the incinerator was empty, and this place is like a goddamn maze,”

_Payload? What payload?_ You decide to save your questions for another time, tentative eyes glancing over towards the contents of the pages that the Admiral skims through with deft fingers.

The woman sighs again, pointing an accusatory finger to your direction, “And this one. _Her_. This idiot was marked for C. Why would you bring her? She shouldn’t be here!”

“Both her and the payload would have ended up in the incinerator, regardless,” The Admiral snaps, inducing a vociferous scoff from the woman who points her nose and rifle away, storming off to cover the group’s tail for any surviving terrorists, “Pull your head out of your ass and get moving, Ingrid.” 

Although your mind is conflicted about being a newfound burden, your mind reels upon the sight of the final page; a picture of a young man with black, choppy hair and slate-blue eyes, labeled Nimbus Sorin. _Was this—was Nimbus Sorin their payload?_ Already, however, the Admiral can sense the trenchant apprehension climbing vigorously up the walls of your throat, and you inwardly wonder if she has her DOOMs to thank her for knowing—her clairvoyance was almost as fast as Higgs’. And finally, as you pull the rubber— _the wool_ —over your eyes, it dawns on you from the vestige of her similar tresses of black hair; _it’s—it’s Nebula Sorin_. The revelation is, however, like a zephyr, as Nebula Sorin lurches forward and yanks you away—she must’ve known from the start that you’re not a sufferer like she was, or like any of the others she brought with her. You're completely vulnerable, yet akin to a wilding, all at once.

“You know him?” Admiral—Nebula asks, having caught you staring down at the file.

With a dry mouth, you answer, “I killed him.”

You _thought_ you did, anyway.

Another bombardment of gunfire enters the field, and only then are you able to assimilate everything in your surroundings than appreciate the nature of it all. Tents are at every corner, while vehicles are in scarce supply, none of which are worth taking the risk jumping for. The entire company of this territory was beginning to take the hint that something went wrong with their incinerator and created a ruckus of gunfire and explosions, coming out of their tents to find intruders and their ‘ _escaped little bird_ ’. Terrorists were fast but it was up to you and the Elysian to be smarter—handling the cascade of bullets with a multitude of chiral jumps, kinetic movements, or just plain, humanely skill. 

“I’ve got some business to take care of,” Nebula warns you, the clasp of her sopping red hand around your side loosening as she intends to turn a heel south, “Don’t die just yet, we have questions. And I’m sure you do, too.”

_Oh, you have **no** idea,_ you want to say but instead nod vigorously and reload the rifle—and within the blink of a teary, fervent eye, you're shedding blackened tears again from the chiral exposure. For a moment, you wondered if all the answers you were looking for would be satisfying—but your encouragement to get the fuck out of there overpowers any and all of that. 

The atmosphere became encompassed by plumes of red fires and yellow embers, but you kept your head to the sky, trained on the spherical white that supplied some pretense of direction that could guide you into the great, unknown and safer beyond. You don’t give one ounce of a fuck—not anymore, you just want to stop the pain, the noise, to be alone. Terrorists from every direction began to swarm closer towards you and the Elysian groupings, who you’ve maintained close proximity with, even whilst you were armed— _again, it was better safe than sorry_. You decide to look past the jaundice first impression from the other woman, Ingrid who you saw was faring pretty well on her own, thwarting off a Homo Demen who clung to her backside with a chiral jump to his own behind, gunning him down through the stomach before he even realized she was gone. _These Elysian ruffians don’t fuck around_ , you think, considering them lucky for their DOOMs abilities— _what could happen if you were a sufferer?_ Every known answer was either solicitous or spurious, that kind of possibility was terrifying; you’d have the symptoms of a sufferer to boot, and you’d rather not uncover the meaning behind _‘apocalyptic nightmares_ ’ through your own experience. _Focus, idiot. Focus._

Your truculence against these bastards go down with sixteen rounds, and when the rifle in your hands is empty of any more bullets, you swing the end of the weapon high and low. Bones break and puddles of blood bring an aerosol mist of carnage from your doing, but the pain is shared. Slowly but surely, red begins to leak into your eyes again. The vicious torment surging down your backside takes a lot out of you with each swing, and the only way you can manage to breathe is through your teeth that is mottled with blood. _Your wings—your stupid, fucking severed wings!_ You’d do more than knock a couple of teeth in, twist limbs out of their sockets, tase or burn them with machines. Red, it’s all just red. You’re not just out for blood anymore, you’re proving something—at least, _trying to._

“Flightless but not featherless.”

_Fuck. Oh, fuck._

**Maisie.**

She looks terrible. Her hair is clumped and matted, some tresses are even singed off. Ashes and soot come in dark streaks, like paint across her skin. She was sweating, tired, and angry for all of this; their plan being ruined by the likes of Elysians. By the likes of you. A goddamn zero, too. The only way she can save herself from this defeat, you assume, is if she manages to kill you right here and right now. No way she’s letting the Elysians abscond you just like they did with everything else, and Maisie levels her head with the idea along with the barrel of a black revolver— _yet another dark beauty_ —that she has in her hands between your eyes. A crazed, wicked expression is all you can see of this terrorist, yet you wonder why you feel some ounce of undeniable pity. It wasn’t a misplaced feeling, being that it calmed your laborious breathing despite being met with a gun. You’re ambivalent, yet you stand your ground. One thing at a time. 

“You...you have been one huge pain in my ass, little bird,” Maisie’s chuckle seethes from out her teeth, “No wonder Higgs likes you so much. You two are so much alike. One might even say it’s destiny.”

It seemed like you were more expressive than you thought, being that when Maisie took in the sour pinch on your face, her laugh only grew louder—your voice gets taut and louder, “I don’t give a shit what he thinks about me. I’m leaving. Each and every single one of you can kiss my ass while I’m walking out the base, you hear me? I do not give a shit about him, or you, or any of these useless, despicable fucks here—and I sure as hell don’t give one ounce of a fuck about Amelie,”

The revolver aimed at you falters for only a second, but it provides enough time to gather in the rest of your surroundings; you’re still many lengths away from the end of the territory, “This all ends here. I...am _still_ here. If you fucks think destiny is real, consider that your ‘ _God_ ’ put me here to bury your ass six feet in the ground.”

“You...you think you have any say at all that can stop from what’s coming?” Maisie rolls her head across her shoulders, trembling with ire, “You’re nothing, little bird. A plain zero. A nobody. A piece of useless dog shit. No matter how much you think you know, or how much Higgs likes you, you can’t stop destiny. You can’t stop what we started. It’s easier, painless, and glorious to join the cause, instead,”

_Only then can you fly free._

“The world ends with us. With you.”

Your fingers curl and readjust around the grips of the rifle, veins popping out of your neck when your mouth twitched into a feeble smile, “But I suppose your annoying-ass monologue doesn’t have an ending, does it?”

When the revolver clicks, you swing the rifle up the highest you can manage, no matter how many ligaments or muscles tear apart to knock the gun away. It’s a bloody success; Maisie’s hand is empty, but yours is, too. She is inconceivably faster, delivering a mean left hook to your wrecked ribs and a hefty right hook to your cheek. Although you stagger, the pain in her punch doesn’t compare with what she did with your back—you spiral down easily, getting low to sweep her leg from right under her. She goes down with two of your own hooks across her face, intercepting the third with her arms that restrain yours—headbutting you in the nose. She wasn’t as good as Higgs, not even if she was a sufferer. And when you fall, you’re glad that she doesn’t have anything that makes up for what Higgs had when you faced him, other than standing quicker than you anticipated. The shadow of her knee blocks out that ray of sunshine you missed so much, and although you slew the other way, your ear gets the worst of it when the bone is crushed against your flesh. 

Maisie goes down again as your elbow jerks back and strikes the small of her back, and this time, she reaches for the revolver. _Holy shit,_ you breathe again, holding the fresh welt that darkens the older, yellowing bruise across your ribs, you cannot worry about her. You need to worry about running while you still can. You find the empty rifle again a few lengths away from Maisie, who fumbled and reloaded the revolver again. And, in the even farther distance, you can see the shine of a blue sky almost buried in the dirt. The gem in the ring carefully rolls within your palm as you procure it again, wondering if there is any kind of value, anything at all that it’s worth bringing with you once you leave. When you slip on the ring, even though you don’t feel any different, you keep it on whilst you curl your hand around the rifle again.

The hammer of the revolver pulls back with her bloodied thumb, but she doesn’t aim it in time as you swing the buttstock of the rifle across her jaw. Blood and teeth soar in the air and soaks the earth in intricate, macabre patterns—a sight that makes you sigh shakily. _Disarming is different from beating_ , your father told you during one of his lessons, _it’s wiser to beat the gun out of all hands than to let them still have it pointing_. It was a lesson that was frequently taught, but no matter how many times you relived and listened to it over and over again, you still don’t appreciate the sentiment.

The revolver rolls out of Maisie’s palm and is now up for grabs—and taking it into your hands takes longer than you had expected. For so long, you’ve gone through the motions. Every ebb and flow of discord and chaos that you’ve endured seemed like hurdling over obstacles. You haven’t been hit yet. Whatever they had done to you so far was considered a pittance in comparison to _‘the grand finale’_ ; the destruction of all life as we know it. Higgs’ plan. _Amelie’s fucking **plan**_. You can no longer be acerbic to these people who test every goddamn nerve you had anymore, not if you want to continue thriving, fighting for the side of the living. You snatch the revolver and unload it—seven rounds—emptying it into the back of Maisie’s head. You don’t flinch to any of it.

Maisie’s nothing but a ticking time-bomb, now. Only the dead have leftover business with her, and it was about time that you get out of this shithole. As you glower upon the corpse of your torturer, you wonder if this was a sin or a blessing. Either way, the clustering thoughts palliate the weight and the pain brought upon your conscience than what remains of your body. It’s hard to move, the tendon laceration— _as your mother once chastised your father about once on a hunting accident_ —was surely becoming infected from the chiral and wilderness exposures in the air. The excruciating sear is just a paradigm for what else is to come, and you stagger and groan with that wavering motion of pain. It’s like being washed up within the tide on the ocean. 

You’re at the center of hell. They have...Higgs has successfully broken you.

_**“NO!”** _

When you veer your head, the force of an overwhelming, burly weight tackles you to the ground. Fists clobber and strike anywhere above your shoulders—the worst of the blows leaves your ears ringing, almost exactly like the cracks of gunfire echoing within your cell, except duller. Bony knuckles and saliva collide against your cheeks, and the blood oozing from the corner of your mouth worsens the sweltering dampness of your skin. A shadow— _a screaming one_ —has pinned and pummeled you into the dirt. Pink and red streaks cracked in above their brow is your sole focus, the only thing that keeps you alive, wondering, and conscious; _a scar_ , you realize. That bloody scar— **Callahan’s scar**. He must’ve joined in with the noise and watched you unload a gun into the back of his sister’s head. You would’ve reacted the same way, too if some asshole did that to Rowan in front of you. But then again, you wouldn’t take this long using your fists. 

“ _LOOK AT ME!_ Look at me, you fuckin’ sorry-sack of shit! _FUCKING LOOK AT ME!_ What did you do!?” His hoarse, cockney-accented voice screams into your face and hardly minds as his teeth graze the tip of your nose, “You killed her. You killed my bloody little sister, you dumb bitch! **_LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID!”_**

You say nothing, you do nothing, you only stare—watching as Callahan blessed you with the miraculous sight of his own pearly, glistening tears. _They’re like drops of sunshine_ , you think somberly. But the harshness, the garishiness of his tears is shown through his external cruelty and violence; his dark beauty beginning to carve away into your bottom lip. The tip of the blade that settles shakily in his fist carves away at the harrowed end of your mouth, and you decide to focus on the searing pain over your back instead.

“You left me alone. You took away the one thing—” Callahan struggles to speak through his teeth, seething his hot, stinking breath that fans against your lashes, “—You took my dear Maisie away. And now... _now_...there’s nothing left. Nothing, not one fucking thing that will numb this fuckin’...”

Callahan’s throat throttles with his own spit and breath, struggling to maintain himself in front of you—brazen, broken, and fearless. Yet the pain that draws from the clean cut upon your lip digs into your gums, now. Your muscles are screaming, aching for relief and movement that would accede to his wrath—placing the task of your death in his hands, especially after what you’ve done, no doubt it would be quick. He will cleave, hack, and saw everything that you are, limb from limb, tongue to the roots of your hair—but you’ll be dead long before you could feel that kind of onerous pain. 

“It’s only fair, fair to that no-good fucker with that crazy lord of ours…” _Higgs and Amelie_ , you assume, “It’s only fair that I do the same. Isn’t it? It’s fair that I take you from Higgs. I’m going to take away his _little bird,”_

Callahan raises his knife and your heart stutters in what will be your final breath, “The only way I’m giving you back to him is in _FUCKING **PIECES—”**_

A tarry, black needle breaches out from Callahan’s chest—sinuous and familiar. The needle thickens into what you might recognize as a sword, tearing into his chest deeper and wider—his breaths becoming short and panicked, choking on the air and blood that bubbles up his throat, where you inevitably hear a wet gargle. The inky blade turns flexible, shifting and coiling, twisting his insides until you forget about Callahan’s three ribs that peak from his torso and lightly rest upon your knee. You look over with a phlegmatic and even impatient glare— _this was the Admiral’s work._ And you see her and someone else crossing the field of gunfire to get to you, her sable appendage retreating in break-neck speed back to the side of her hip, and only then does a cascade of red and black soak you from the waist down. Everywhere, anywhere you look there is blood and chaos—you doubt there is any pithy into how much of it stains your skin. 

A hand grips you by the shoulder and yanks you away from under Callahan’s weight with ease. _How many times are people like them gonna save your ass today?_ When you’re finally blessed with that fistful of blinding sunshine, you see Nebula and her payload—her brother, Nimbus clamoring up to your sides. They’re shouting or whispering rifely into your ears that haven’t lost the ring yet—you can’t hear what they're saying, maybe Callahan had delivered a blow to your head or his shouts actually were loud enough to knock out some of your hearing. But you intend to respond physically; grasping their arms, heaving your weight onto them, just fucking _breathing_ in general. Nebula moves first, slinging your arm over her shoulder, while her brother takes the other. This was your first time seeing him in person, for a first impression, he looks good blurry. 

_Mock execution_ , you mind clicks, it was just Callahan’s way of extracting information without losing any real leverage.

Although you understand what actually transpired from Cell Block A, you don’t think you’ll be coming to terms with relieving yourself of the guilt you faced any time soon. You thought you killed a kid. _Again_. How you would subjugate yourself to keep on living, you’d never know. In fact, you just very well might’ve died if you had the chance. Through small bushfires and waves of bullet shells, the three of you manage to reach the terrorists’ garage; which looked more like a hangar with your reddened and obscured line of sight. There are vehicles up for grabs and you try to go through the trenchant path of sobriety, the only obstacle to hurdle there is the pain. All of it. You try to listen to what might’ve been the bickering of the two siblings over the sound of your own pounding heartbeat, whilst they settled you down near a cicada and talked into their comms strapped to their shoulders.

“We’ve got the Sergeant and wounded,” Nebula informs what you suspect to be her troops waiting outside, “I’ve got 20 on some extra convoys, move westbound to the rendezvous point.”

“You know, I don’t speak espionage but I’m gonna assume we’re _finally_ getting out of here?” Through the pain, you remain restive, albeit, whilst hacking out blood. 

Nebula shrugs her shoulders, popping the vehicle door open before hoisting you up inside, “If we can make it through a company of armed terrorists. In all honesty, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be a shoot-out until they changed Nimbus’ holding cell. You’ll have to blame dear old Callahan for that. Our improvisational skills aren’t quite... _meticulous_. Not like his.”

“It works either way,” Your exasperated sigh is muffled as you let your face rest against the seat cushions, “You found me. Didn’t think you Elysians were capable of all that, though. As they put it; you were tykes and outcasts. Lost souls. Sufferers who don’t know what they’re doing...now that...seems about right.”

Nebula doesn’t strike you as someone who has _all_ of her shit together. She may command troops but even you know how much is at stake when there are lives literally being placed into your hands—being that she was one of three leaders, you suspect that she just might want to prove herself. That forked-tongue of hers makes her stand out, but if it was through intimidation or fear, either way, you know it wasn’t working any wonders. Her hands, however, they’ve felt more than enough experience that proved she was tactful enough—her deft fingers combing through the knots in your hair and feeling up the parts of your skin that burn worse than her touch. Her brother, from out of the corner of your periphery, seemed worried—now that was saying something. Although their chances of escaping were affluent with all these vehicles laying around, you can sense the hint of impatience. _Don’t worry about me_ , you wanted to say, _just get moving._ In the end, you don’t say anything while Nebula continues to examine your wounds, not even when she pulls back and has that kind of look on her face, you stiff your upper lip.

“Don’t sugar-coat it, doc,” You hiss lightly when you roll your shoulder, feeling a few tendons and muscles straining to stretch, “Give it to me straight.”

Nebula seems to want to adumbrate, too, as she becomes momentarily distracted by the sound of gunfire not far behind, “It’s a miracle that you’re even speaking right now. Most of your wounds are either infected or just...looks like plain shit.”

_Tell me something I don’t know_ , you think bitterly, the tip of your tongue peeking out the corner of your arid mouth to lap up the mottles of blood. Whether it was Callahan’s or yours, you couldn’t care less either way—it tastes like satisfaction. When the gunfire began the second time, Nebula and Nimbus took it as their cue to begin moving, some shells managed to puncture through the aluminum walls, with a blaring, painfully loud crack to boot. The first wave of terrorists that immediately pour through the gate are gunned down by two of the remaining Elysian troops. The others, you assume, are meeting at the rendezvous point—it’s up to depending on yourself now. Unsurprisingly, they protect their superiors who hoist themselves upon two reverse-trikes, and you, fortunately, don’t miss the rather apologetic glance that Nebula spares you as she revs the vehicle's handles, the engine roaring to life. Her face just screams ‘ _stay put, I’m coming back for you_ ’, but you cannot find it within your little injured heart to give a fuck. Needless to say, Nimbus didn’t look any different. The length of your arm drapes lazily over the steering wheel of the cicada, where you give the siblings a single finger.

Yes, _that_ finger. 

“There’s a canal not far from here,” Nebula began, pointing westbound, “If you do intend to stay—which I highly recommend given that you look absolutely god-awful—ditch the cicada halfway there. Walk on the grass and not in the mud.”

That made sense, you agree silently, it wouldn’t narrow down their whereabouts should any of them follow.

The second wave of terrorists are smarter, you admit. They send the grenades first than to put their foot through the door, multiple flashes and a series of ear-splitting explosions rattle up the walls that you’re certain of are beginning to crumble. Even if they have the firearms to out-muscle the three of you, they don’t have the best protection on the inside. The chaos to you becomes amorphous; there are too many sounds, pain, and people for your mind to keep up with the fact that you’re even in danger. Your movements remain sluggish, ambivalent, and way too slow—you’ve exhausted yourself to the point where you can just barely keep your eyes open. Callahan must’ve punched one of them swollen; the red in your left eye is different this time. You found it ironic; you were once intrepid and dauntless to think of escaping, and now that you’re out, you’re too tired to even keep your eyes open. The raw ire in your chest was never extinguished, you noted, it just _simmered down_. You don’t have enough guile to give one final glare towards the siblings who clamor together with the other Elysians.

Figures— _people_ advance adversely from your vehicle, and you find some measure of relief when you consider the idea that the terrorists might think that you’re not even alive anymore. In the end, you’re not their top priority. The head of their division— _enterprise_ is dead, along with his sister. If you get admonished for getting the heads of those two idiots murdered, no less by the UCA, you’d say you regret nothing in a heartbeat. Your hands clasp together quietly, trembling and fumbling with your heaving, ardent breaths as you listen to the sound of the reverse-trikes peel off out of the garage. The Homo Demens follow in suit, some even in their own vehicles. Then, there is silence.

Whether you decide to follow the Elysians westbound and meet at their rendezvous point is up to you, but your own mission is to just actually leave the base. It takes a ragged sigh and a few muscles pulling from your shoulders to get your hands adjusted around the steering wheel, with a few pinches from the cuts and bruises as your foot reaches the gas pedal. It takes even longer when you take a moment to breathe, steeling your nerves— _or what’s left of them._ Driving a vehicle wasn’t really your strongest suit, but there aren’t any roads or pedestrians worth caring about here. Hell, if you did run over someone here, you’d put the car in reverse and fucking do it again.

The rubber grips of the wheel grounded you into honing your focus onto the dashboard and then onto the steel-barred gates that had been leveraged open. What followed beyond that point, from as much as you could see, was awash with a pure, iridescent light; _**freedom**_. A chance of bliss that you didn’t hesitate upon taking as you practically floored the pedal into the ground, the convoy peeling upon the asphalt at such a speed that beat down your neck terribly with whiplash—yet another thing to worry about. You bucked your hips and swayed through the motions of the earth rocking against the rubber tires, and braced for any sort of impact that was unfortunate enough to stand in your way. Though, such fears turned into disinterest—you only shifted the gears and went faster. 

_Drive, motherfucker. **Drive!**_

You reach the first line of tents and actually manage to knock a few down, nylon and polyester fabrics, metal poles, and needless things drape and cascade off the hood of the cicada, and it doesn’t take long for bodies to smack against it, too. Several terrorists—and you know they’re terrorists, given by how quickly they are to point guns at you—knocked down like dominos by the steely weight of your speeding convoy. There isn’t much blood that mottles the windshield, but you soak in the satisfaction in any other way you can; their pained grunts, shouts of staggering surprise, and the momentary sight of them choking with punctured lungs and broken ribs made you count your blessings. You decide to take up on the offer of being treated by the Elysians, groaning as your arms hauled the wheel from left to right—the pain in your back was evident that should you decide to go back to your bunker instead, you wouldn’t make another night. With every person you mow down, you think—you _remember_ each kind of torment Maisie, Callahan, Amelie, and Higgs had put you through. 

When one flies up and hits the roof, you remember the beatings. Another’s head gets crushed between the back-left fender and tire, you remember the many hours you endured deprived of sleep. Some other idiot managed to grab hold and pry open one of the doors, to which you peel to the right and smash his entire body against a row of tents, relishing in the following wet crunch. And there, you remember the ice bath and the sound of the baby’s cry. You remembered that kind of fear, thinking that the sound might’ve been Rowan. Against the dashboard, just as you reach the end of the terrorist base, the corpse of Maisie is sprawled across your vehicle—but you don’t stop. You ruminate, discern the pain in your back that spread from the roots of your hair and down to your toes. You bear witness to her dead, fern-green eyes that would constantly be a reminder that there will be too many scars to count once you leave. 

Your wings. Your goddamn fucking wings...

The world moves past you in phantasmal and wondrous colors. You don’t forget about the mountain ranges or shrub grass, at least, you try not to. Although they never lost their green nor winsome scenery, your jaw unhinged with what you want to perceive as a mouth full of fangs when you release a visceral, terrible scream. The guilt, agony, and sense of misery becomes awash with rancor—that same red as before when you saw _Higgs_ — ** _Amelie_** , who tried to put you under her control. You still cannot understand that woman’s divinity or wisdom, or even what she wants with you. All you understand at that moment was, is that you abhor that fucking bitch. She’s pulled too many strings and snapped off the rest. Every crevice of your head is filled with trenchant certainty; _you’re going to kill her._ You’re going to kill whatever and whoever decided to put you in the _‘grand scheme_ ’ and fuck up your life. Starting with Higgs. The bastard approved— _he left you in the fucking dirt to rot._ What vociferous thoughts come next to spurn him, however, is interrupted by the sight of utter darkness and death.

You don’t know if it was the raw anger that caught up with you, or the weight of your aching bones that caused you to completely block out your focus on the ground from Maisie’s dead-fish eyes. But you know for a fact that had you remembered that you weren’t in familiar territory— _outside of where the UCA allowed_ —you would’ve stopped the cicada from diving off the edge of a cliff. There was a faultline that you chose not to pay attention to. You were too angry, too broken—any one of those reasons would’ve lifted the weight of some hapless pity you put on yourself. It was different than falling on a reverse-trike, you note, there are walls that can protect you from the worst of what part of the surface you can see. What lies at the bottom, the parts that you couldn’t see? You prayed to whatever god might be listening that you’d be dead before you hit the bottom. 

You remember the time you and Higgs had lost control of the reverse-trike when trying to outrun the stranger and his grenade launcher. The amount of spatial awareness of the air that whips right under you, the feeling of falling into an abysmal darkness, and every second of it makes you terrified. Higgs wasn’t there to save you this time with his shitty, chiral-jumping mercy. You just might not survive this time, not even after how much endured to get to this point—you’re here, right? You’ve escaped, _didn’t you?_ The cicada clashes against the crust of the earth and tears down the steel doors, the metal hinges and latches spilling over the floors and next to you on the seats, a sight that makes the pace of your breathing accelerate worryingly. You’re inevitably against the rocky walls that keep you inevitably trapped within the suffocating, thundering confinements. Why doesn’t it feel like freedom? Why do you feel like you’re only so close to the end? Something carves into your leg and into your bicep, new red rivers flow down to your backside that keeps itself pressed tightly into the cushions.

_Stay away from the glass_ , you remind yourself, watching how the white cracks of the windshield split into a spearing web that could just very well capture your entire body but not withstand your weight. You have nothing—nobody to cling onto. But it’s not like you’d ask for anyone, anyway. This immense fear is swelteringly slick, akin to your filthy, bloodied, and sweaty skin that makes it even harder to get a grip on anything even remotely stable. 

“Fuck...” You curse within a tight whisper, listening to the sudden rush of thunder bellowing from above—a storm was rolling in. 

And, unexpectedly, there was a coil that snapped, shaking and lowering the cicada deeper into the earth and you can feel your chest fall down with it. Your hands splay against the crumpled doors that won’t budge with your current strength, and there, you try to at least keep yourself from being the farthest away from the black fissure. The world is dark and harrows a kind of melancholy that you were once familiar with in the earlier years of your life, and you choke on those kinds of tears. When the glass breaks, the shock to your lungs becomes even more scorching as the rain seeps through the cracks. The drops pool around your feet and take your mind off of other things—how you got here in the first place; those sins. You mutter your apologies again, allaying yourself from the fact that you could very well die here, alone. It’s what you wanted, right? _Death or freedom?_ Or at least, one of the two—freedom isn’t free.

You try not to flinch back from the sickening squelch and crackle that your ribs resonate within your flesh as you begin to climb towards the rear panel, trying to be as a light as possible. It was the only logical way out of this hellhole, already the glass there was completely gone. But through the dizzying pain striking against your cleaved back, soaked with the frigid rainwater and whipped against the chilling air, what was left of your strength begins to stagger. 

Your sopping red and black palms fail to keep their grip around the headrest and you plummet downward. Your body swings right through the panel of the broken windshield but you have yet to meet your doom; your fingers just barely clasp the end of the cowl panel and the feeling of iron grounds you into clinging on. Unfortunately, your head takes the worst of the descent as it slammed against the remaining glass, and by then you don’t blame anyone but yourself. There, your body works on instincts and the edges of adrenaline—you begin to slip in and out of consciousness and you cannot, for the life of you, predict what would come if you let go. A hoarse whimper throttles against your throat and you see no other choice than to mutter another sequence of apologies. There aren’t many, but you try to mean every word.

The end of your sins takes the form of a broken whisper; _your brother’s name._

_It seemed fitting, didn’t it?_

There, you begin to like the concept of dreaming. You’d meet calm waves, unblemished seas, and what other walks of life you would’ve taken had you have been smart enough to avoid this kind of fate. Your eyes close, and you don’t whole-heartedly expect the sound it makes when they shut; a kind of whipping snap that smells of smoke. And, for what it’s worth, you could even say you enjoy this deathly dream. It smelled like tuberose.

_“Oh, little bird...what have they done to you?”_

* * *

AYYYYYYE! MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HOLIDAYS, YALL! I tried to put this chapter out as fast as a I could--I didn't want this to turn into another 34 paged, 3+ week thing. hopefully I did alright? I admit it was a rushed piece, but I'm happy how it turned out. I wanna apologize for not getting to the comments recently as I've been so busy with holiday prep and a ton--and I mean A TON--of mishaps in my life atm. I'm trying to keep it from distracting my work ethic lmao. thank you so much for your patience, everyone! Much, much love!


	21. Pábitel「21」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞

_Higgs, the fucking devil—God—whatever he was, has **finally** shown his face to you._

And truth to be told, he didn’t want to. Not like this. Especially not like this. 

Higgs Monaghan deemed himself the most ‘ _honorable_ ’ above all others, a man who would put his duty first above the millions dying should they rest in his bloody, DOOM-powered, gloves. The right-hand of Amelie Strand—the Extinction Entity—who pushed herself beyond the expectations of a person who knew how to get shit done. At least, that’s how things used to be when things didn’t come spiraling down out of their control—not with Sam Porter Bridges running around. And especially, not with the likes of you—his little bird—so _weak_ in his arms. It makes him contrite, frustrated even, tugging at whatever heartstrings he has left that remain in your hands, that you’ve just become his _number **one**_ priority. You were dying, above all the millions of others, and Higgs ultimately decided that he’d breathe first before choosing you over them and his duty as the angel of death’s right-hand.

In truth, he had expected worse; far more severe burns and charred patches across your skin that was instead butchered, tased, and beaten. He watched your bunker—your steel sky go up in flames in that snow-crested mountain. He had spent hours in the powdered white and red, praying—wondering what kind of plan his God had left for him without you. Although he found your company particularly more entertaining than he cared to admit, it still doesn’t stop him from at least hoping. When the flickering reds, burning yellows, and cindering oranges finally wafted into a permeation of grey and black, he searched through what remained of the clouds of your sky. He dug out the roots of whatever was left of your home on his hands and knees for hours, through ash, rubble, and soot, procuring nothing of real value except for a single leather-back journal where he remembered your room used to be. Books in general were a rarity these days, and Higgs considered himself lucky to be a convict—stealing treasures like books were just one of the finer things in this life these days. And, as a convict and a terrorist, he doesn’t think twice before prying open the pages. _What kind of walls of privacy are there for the dead?_

Your handwriting was neat and your way with words didn’t fall short of what Higgs had been expecting from someone like you; short and brief, with a hint of some caustic vulgarity that he admittedly came to grow fond of. You wrote of the simple things that only children pay attention to; opinions of pretty-looking flowers, your favorite childhood televised programs, and the way your mother scolded you for not taking care of the wooden greenhouse that eventually, your father had to take down in order to get through the harsher winters. His personal favorite had been a picture you had drawn of your father’s Desert Eagle, nearly completed with charcoal, where he had found that the ends were incomplete and smudged off and your father’s fingerprint rested at the corner—he must’ve been angry that you took his firearm. He chuckled at that, even in your youth, you were caught in all sorts of mishaps. And when he skimmed to the final few pages—completely scribbled with various locations and crossed out names used by that same piece of charcoal—he realized that your luck in avoiding trouble might’ve been nonexistent all this time. 

_Mountain Knot_ — **NO**. _Central Knot_ — **NO**. _Waystation NMK_ — **NO**. _Lake Knot_ — **NO**. _Lockne_ — **NO**. _Mama_ — **NO**. _Alex_ — **NO**. _**NO, NO, NO.**_ Higgs was a rather adroit tactician for a man of his caliber, but Higgs could clearly see that your skills weren’t as sharp. You had been searching for many months, maybe even years for something. Something clearly important. And only when he fished out the silver pinwheel from his pocket, did he realize how much that _someone_ meant to you. Higgs wasn’t a man that spared pity, however, he did have some for you as he thought of how much distress and misery you’ve gone through to search for your baby brother. He flips a few more pages to deny himself of a certain ruminating guilt of getting you mixed up in these kinds of troubles in the first place, where he finds one of your most recent entries. The first sentence is enough for him to even swallow a dollop of bile sitting in his desiccated throat.

**_‘I can’t find him. I can’t fucking find him,’_** Already, Higgs could see the stark contrast of your handwriting done through anger, **_‘ ~~Mom~~ —the Botanist should already be in her third trimester during the winter. I’ve got to find Rowan before then; alive or unborn. I’m not sure if I can get anywhere near her, though. Not with ~~dad~~ —the Hunter keeping watch. I shouldn’t expect anything less when it comes to him. Not with me._** **_He taught me the moves, but never the counter,’_**

Higgs could only have the smallest figment of imagination as he thought of himself being gunned down by a loved one. It wasn’t very hard, admittedly. There, he wondered if the amount of punches he endured from his daddy’s fists could ever measure up to a single bullet, and how many others he’d have to go through if the amount fell short. His hands nearly twist the journal into mangled, illegible proportions, but he kept his fists still and his eyes down.

Your handwriting has a way of calming him down, beginning to flip to the final entry, but the abash churn in his stomach is greater as he soaks in your words, **_‘Edge Knot was a mistake. I got washed up in something bad— ~~someone is~~ —I’ll look for him elsewhere. I can’t— ~~he’s coming~~ —I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Rowan. I don’t know ~~who he is~~ —how to find you. Please, please forgive me. Send my ~~love~~ —my regards to mom and dad, okay? ~~Your big sister loves~~ —I love you.’_**

_I love you_ , Higgs reads again—a sentence that he never expected but whole-heartedly chuckles to.

“You’ve been to Edge Knot, little bird?” Higgs’ whisper is involuntary, but it provides some grounding clarity that shows him that you were strong enough to outlast something greater than a fire—from him—you’ve seen his people, then. 

It’s only pieces and fragments that he can remember before what was his first monumental success of Middle Knot’s destruction as the Extinction Entity’s right-hand. Grand schemes come with big plans, and many have tried to knock him off his throne upon this ruined world—he couldn’t have remembered just one specific person back then. Even if it was you. You first came to him within the flames, wings and all. _Seraphim_ , he would’ve called your first impression, but he settled for something smaller—winsome and endearing—after knowing just how you truly were. He wondered then how far you managed to go through Edge Knot, and in a way, he had some hope for you; the circumstances this time weren’t all that different. You could’ve outrun them, right? _Apparently, you did so before_. His eyes took elsewhere towards the tunnel of the bunker that turned into scrap metal, and a single charred panel that had been printed with the words, ‘MKC-BRIDGES-ISSUED’ provided all context with many questions to boot.

And when he finally got that transmission of an incident that occured within the northern outback—caused by a zero and two sixes, Higgs’ chest soared with a relief that hadn’t come from him since he left his own steel sky. He pushed himself up on wobbly, clicking knees and kept your journal tucked tight under his arm, enveloping himself in a chiral ripple that took him from one place to the other. Jumping great distances like this, crumpled and weak to this recent revelation, could be dangerous even for someone like him. As a god yet to be provoked, he doesn’t take the risk in discerning his limits—not with you, Amelie, or Sam Porter Bridges. And at the end of his third jump that takes him to the edge of Mountain Knot city, he can already tell he was close. 

Higgs was wise to take extra precautions, coming to the Distribution Center first. There, he takes his time shortly stalking a passing BRIDGES faculty member, slightly noting those who he greets and doesn’t. Seeing an opportunity as the faculty member transports packages from a rather secluded corner on a conveyor belt, Higgs doesn’t waste a second beating him down to his knees and uses the strand hanging around his belt against him. Higgs practically chucks the unfortunate soul head-first into a stairwell after stripping him down to his briefs and hastily switches attires, his nose wrinkling rather sourly as he found that blue wasn’t his color— _BRIDGES members always dress so drab_ , he complains internally, fixing on an insipid faculty cap that suitably hides his eyes. _Can’t be too careful_ , he thinks as the edges of his thumb swipe below his eyes, getting rid of some of his pharaohs eye-liner.

Being clement wasn’t always his strongest-suit— _compliant_ , in a way—so Higgs endures walking out of the Distribution Center with his eyes always down. Many different lives come and go with his head pointed low under the sky, lives that he’s obligated on destroying in the name of peace, extinction, and a true ending. **_Game over_** , he scoffs but quickly coughs it down to avoid glancing suspicion. He can only truly wonder how the ending truly felt like other than seeing it— _what_ Amelie had in mind. She can only show ideas, routes to the afterlife that only plays as an interlude for the destruction of the Earth itself. He remembers his first dream, but then again, he doesn’t. He tried hard to block out the youth, even though it fueled a much needed rage and sense of duty that carried out the angel of death’s commands. His daddy had that, too; obligation. And only after his death and many years after, did Higgs agree with it.

The end of his walk stopped him in front of a particularly large building and a hand splayed against his chest. Higgs’ eyes flew up and met with the gaze of a woman’s. Short black hair and very piercing blue eyes; the renowned Lockne. She was smaller than Higgs had initially thought, but her stern, familiar ‘ _doesn’t take shit from anyone_ ’ nature is right on the nose.

_“This isn’t exactly a public area,”_ He remembers Lockne’s gruff tone shakes Higgs out of the sensation of being caught in headlights.

An awkward cough chafes his throat before he offers a feebly polite smile at one corner of his mouth, _“Didn’t mean to intrude, ma’am. I only came with some questions, not inconveniences.”_

_“They can be hinderances, though,”_ Lockne argues, uprooting her hand from his chest before folding her arms, _“I’m not expecting any deliveries or any of you roaches inside my lab this week. If you have questions, take it up with my staff. Not with me.”_

Higgs stiffens his upper-lip, dipping his head and his tone lower towards Lockne’s ear, _“I would’ve taken it up with your dear old, terrorist-accomplice friend of yours. But I’m afraid she wasn’t home.”_

That was certainly enough for Lockne’s hostilities to drop, but as expected, her caution—and even some concern—heightens. 

The outside snowy wilderness evanesces from Higgs’ sight as he is practically dragged in by Lockne. The soles of his surely scuffed chiral-boots stopped dragging against the concrete floors once the two reached her office, a rather vapid and empty space for someone of her caliber, but he appreciated the zen headspace. Lockne was already on edge, Higgs could see, the way her fingers twitched and clasped around her clammy hands without hesitance, her eyes already frantic and fervent— _she’s gotten used to pacing_ , he suspected. And the smell of fear— _oh, boy_ —she _reeked_ of it. The speedwells sitting in a pristine, thin white vase only enhanced the scent, where Higgs dawdled on the idea that you’ve gifted them to her. _You did have a way with flowers_ , he chuckled, _like a hummingbird._

_“The UCA hasn’t given any governmental hostile identities to the general public yet—”_

Higgs interrupts Lockne’s vehement insinuation with a sigh, _“—Well, I am **not** the general public. In fact, as far as you’re concerned, I’m nobody. I’d like to keep this conversation confidential from BRIDGES or those UCA roaches. Surely, that’ll be easy for you; you have a knack for avoiding trouble just like her, don’t you?”_

_“As far as I’m concerned, I should be avoiding the both of you,”_ Lockne snaps, brows furrowed together, _“What do you want?”_

_“Information. As simple as that,”_ Higgs shrugs innocently after Lockne’s incredulous glare narrows, _“It concerns my— **our**...dear friend’s safety. Surely, worrying can’t be a hinderance. I understand there were safeguards put in her bunker to keep out people—ahem, terrorists.”_

Lockne nearly lunges for Higgs’ throat with her bare hands, but inadvertently forgets that she has a paucity of power against someone like him. Already, Higgs has proved to be someone who can get what he wants through meticulously ruthless methods— _tributes for a god_ —being belligerent with him is just begging for a death wish. And she cannot imagine that the end of her life would be painless. Lockne ineptly settles into the cushion of her office chair, her mind begins to involuntarily and panickedly ruminate; thinking of all the possible ways to get out of this ‘ _interrogation_ ’. Higgs crosses the floor towards the thin vase of speedwells, finding the assortment of royal blues and lavenders assaulting on the eyes. _Something yellow would spruce up the room a little,_ he thought, _maybe an orange—or red._

Lockne’s hands settle for her lap than his throat— _he appreciates that_ —and a sigh finally soars from her chest. Her piercing gaze rather softens and hardens at the same time, a sight that Higgs has had his fair share in relishing in—all men who died had that kind of look. Higgs pulls himself back from the flowers and dwindles at the front of her desk, a coy smile tugging on his well-versed lips.

_“I just need her current whereabouts and some details with the construction of her bunker. It was MKC-BRIDGES-issued, right? It was in your service?”_

_“There isn’t much to tell, truthfully,”_ Lockne begins, crossing one leg over the other, her back losing its overbearingly stiff posture, _“After she...after everything happened with warranted search, her bunker’s operative and surveillance system just went offline. It’s true that I helped rebuild her bunker after a thunderstorm...but I severed the connection from her command matrix because I...I thought it was better off never seeing her again.”_

Higgs rolls the rip of his tongue along his bottom lip, scoffing, _“We’re rocking the same boat there. Couldn’t manage to keep her still even for a second. The girl’s a literal spitfire. ”_

_“She is, isn’t she?”_ Lockne hums in agreement, lamenting almost with fond amusement before her eyes snap upwards, _“But that doesn’t change what she did—how she helped people like you—”_

_“—She didn’t help me,”_ Higgs corrects, his voice low and taut—he almost believes it himself, _“She just...She just tolerated me. She didn’t want me. Even when I... **needed** her,”_

Lockne’s frown deepens with what Higgs could describe as a ‘ _misconjecture_ ’; the scowl tugged downward on his own lips only emphasizes the expression. She doesn’t express a faux sense of concern, not to him, but to you. You’ve known each other for a long time, longer than either of you two initially thought—you were there for Lockne when Mama seemed to have gone off the grid with her child, and you expressed such a volume of care and concern than Lockne initially never thought you were capable of. You did not keep anyone by your side for long. You were blunt, calloused, and in all the wrong ways— _alone_. Higgs didn’t understand that about you, and it was fair to say that when you didn’t understand him. He expected others to be different, people who weren’t trying to make your life a living hell by just existing. But when Lockne proved to be no different, he knew he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up when you kept everyone at the same distance. 

_“Your security measures,”_ Higgs interrupts both his and Lockne’s piteous thoughts, _“Were they supposed to implode the entirety of the bunker?”_

There, Lockne’s expression becomes crestfallen—then confused, _“The bunker...wasn’t supposed to...explode at all.”_

It was rigged, then. _Someone_ had rigged your bunker without anyone knowing. 

Yet again Higgs wondered if this was what it was like being you; so many questions with little to no answers. His world—the world spurned him, and Higgs opted to feel better about destroying it for a good while before setting out again. His suspicions led up to the notorious Stranger as his first suspect, _for obvious reasons_. The man or woman was hellbent on turning them into BTs, ash, or cinders. Personally, Higgs would’ve appreciated the chase had they not been after you, too. Although the idea came easily, his meticulous methods and tactics came up as useless as Higgs was provided with no context nor clues as to just who this person was and how to find them. There was no significance to their scent—not even while they were almost burnt to a crisp—and Higgs begrudgingly concluded that his men should have to take on the task of being his hounds. He would just have to concern himself with finding you before it was too late.

His divine providence seems to run his hopes dry when he finds the northern outback’s enterprise awash with flames and smoke. Bright effulgence come into bloom left and right, and the billowing screams of the injured and angered seem to have an echoey effect in this big, unmarked empty wilderness. He finds the first platoon holed up in the medical bay, still armed to the teeth— _they went down swinging, that was good_ —but there were no coherent semblances of words to inform him of what had occurred here. Higgs was met with abashed, pitiful, sorry-ass faces when he entered the armory, men on their knees with their heads low in between, praying for a mercy that Higgs cannot fathom giving. Many point fingers and turn on their own, yelling and screaming, like rabid animals within cages, and strings of curses are thrown here and there, but all Higgs heard was an ocean of noise that overlaps a thunderous drum of whispering— ** _Amelie_**. _She’s watching him._

_“You were sloppy.”_

_I’ll fucking handle it_ , he almost says but swallows those venomous words down from the tip of his tongue. Higgs leaves the wounded with heavy steps towards the field of corpses, their bodies had left so much more of black impression than red; _Elysian fucks_ , he thinks, _they were here_. The tarry residue on most of the dead’s bodies glistened under the blotted moonlight akin to ichor—the blood in the veins of older gods—but even Higgs didn’t find the tar to be reverent. Those low-leveled brats had been fucking up too many operations to count, and now this? _The expansion?_ Higgs concluded that while he was the most honorable among these dogs of war, he proved to be the most livid, oscillating between tearing apart his own men or those who let this happen. And at that final ponder, Higgs turned his storm-brewed leer towards a particular body that was still thrashing about, still kicking and crawling his way towards another corpse who laid in the dirt with bullets behind her eyes, still fucking alive when you, in all probability, was **_not_**. 

_“Don’t,”_ Amelie’s whisper becomes clear as the dawn that unfurls beyond the horizon, leaking a garish white into Higgs’ eyes, lambent with malevolence, _“Lose him now, and you’ll have nothing left.”_

Higgs, for the second time, had doubted the Extinction Entity.

In truth, it doesn’t take long to find you. He takes the unorthodox route for a man—god of his caliber, chartering out a Cicada PHI with a nylon tarp wrapped around the roll bars, before throwing all caution in the wind. _If nobody could do a decent job around here, there’s no point in waiting_ , Higgs thought, using the rain, wind, and the light of a nearby storm to guide him throughout the craggy, unmapped terrain. His odradek wasn’t of any use here, no, what provided some pretense of a direction was the likes of an echoey song. It was hard to miss as the thunder and pelting rain had grown to be tumultuous, but the closer Higgs drove towards the vaster clearing, green, empty, and dark. It’s different than a voice but more of a vibration. But it was the least of his worries, now, after everything he’d seen, it doesn’t cross the threshold of _‘weird’_. Nothing does anymore.The music grows louder, and Higgs shifts the gears to stop the vehicle. He’s reached the end of the storm, finding beneath his feet, a fissure in the earth. The world calms him then, his breath mingling with a lashing wind that reeked of blood and oil. _Something is here_ , he thought, taking one, long whiff of the air. A stone clattered and fell over a near cliff from under his shoe, and as Higgs peered down into a large, deep, and dark crack, he was met with the sight of a lone vehicle caught between the gap of the crust. The stench of blood down there is _immense_.

Whatever remains of the cicada, Higgs deems it as scrap metal, the UCA didn’t exactly have the best issued vehicles at hand for a terrorist’s convenience. He extends his palm outwards and feels the shifts of the atmosphere, his extended levels of clairvoyance didn’t always work well under pressure and under the rain. Yet, he couldn’t allow himself to fall under the weight of doubt when already, so many lives were lost. Higgs had found a sludge-like movement at the very bottom of the pit, and his hand raised to yank it to the surface. _There is tar everywhere_ , he remembers, courtesy of Amelie who insisted the Homo Demens to be out here in the first place. The strain it takes to do so rests mostly in his forearms, and Higgs almost curses when the weight of the vehicle begins to push and rise against the flux of tar that soiled the green and cracked clearing. Metal wires are swallowed within the rising inky black and snap from Higgs’ more impatient efforts. He winces as the convoy topples over, and it heavily reminds him as the driving factor for Central Knot’s destruction. 

_“Oh, little bird...what have they done to you?”_

He finds you _literally_ clinging for dear life on the fender of the vehicle, and Higgs finds the task to appear to your side and shield you from the timefall is more exhausting than he’d anticipated—three jumps to a city just don’t hold a candle from one jump by your side. He shrugs off his rather tepid cloak and bundles you within it, pressing your knees firmly against your chest to wrap you up completely. If he was completely honest, he thought he’d be doing such a thing under _other_ circumstances, but nonetheless, he keeps you as safe as he can allow whilst he carries you back to his own intact vehicle. You’re still not off the hook yet, especially not with Amelie watching him even closer now. You remain feeble, unconscious, and _so weak_ in his arms, Higgs’ breath shudders as his gloved hands aimlessly rove through the curves of each injury across your skin. He hears the soft murmur of an incoherent phrase muffle through the fabric of his cloak, and he is inadvertently glad that he won’t have to be carrying you off to an incinerator. _How the hell are you still alive?_

Now, Higgs acts on his own volition. Higgs minds your head as he lays you down in the truck bed floor, somewhat proud of his extra measures of precaution as the nylon tarp protected the both of you from the downpour, unfurling your head from his cloak that had been soaked with mud, water, blood, and sweat. _Jesus, you were a mess_. He finds the first set of injuries below your collarbone, and doesn’t indulge himself in looking anywhere else, yet. There are bruises, and even cuts over those yellowing and purple blemishes—and when he sees that some of the lesions are still slick and weepy, he pushes down the need to impetuously wake you for answers. He didn’t consider himself to be a patient man, either, he doesn’t like to wait this long for something like answers. But, begrudgingly, he settles with the deafening silence for your sake. Hell, he even takes off his gloves just to handle you better.

Higgs sits you upright to unfasten the wrap around his cloak, and feels the ghostly impact of your flesh settle against the ball of his shoulder and up to the crook of his neck. The pace of your breath is kept short and wispy, but it doesn’t at all lose its ardency as the tips of Higgs’ reddened ears catches the worst of the heat—his skin ridden with gooseflesh that normally would’ve materialized from the baneful chill of winter. He presses onward to finish the task rather than get swept up with lecherous thoughts for your sake, peeling back the cloak further and stops with his heart caught in his throat. Wet on his fingers is a purulent sanguine, colors that he doesn’t agree with on you whilst his eyes lowers to your backside, where he finds just what might be the _greatest_ cosmic joke in the eyes of man. Of a god. 

“Shit...fucking shit— _fuck!”_ Higgs almost shoves you away to stop himself from staring at your truly ‘ _severed wings_ ’, “What in the fucking hell were you thinking, walkin’ out there all by your lonesome? You never had the faintest goddamn clue what’s prowling out there. Look at what they did to you,”

Higgs slows his movements before sighing deeply into your hair, “Look what people like me can do...look at what I did to you.”

Higgs stays by your side until the rain stops, and only after the stench of petrichor has left his nose does he decide to head back to the northern outback’s enterprise—back to the medical bay to salvage whatever was left for you. Your injuries look rather inhuman to withstand, but there you were, still fighting and breathing. With your weight fully against him, Higgs tries to swallow down that sense of accomplishment as your propinquity reached a new record. _Now’s not the time_ , he scolded himself, climbing back into the driver’s seat after securing you in place across the trunk bed floor. He practically floored the convoy back to the enterprise, deciding to take full responsibility for your complaints of whiplash and worsened ribs when you came to. Higgs’ heart almost stuttered in his chest; **_if_** you came to. 

The particle of God is vehement in taking back control, even threatening the remaining platoons of summary execution should something like this ever happens again. Off-shore groups that did business in the east provide clean up for the destruction and mess that you, the Elysians, and other pig-headed terrorists had made. All the while, Higgs was just lucky that overseeing their frightful sorry-asses wasn’t like pulling teeth. He moves onto the medical bay and stashes whatever he can find into an assault pack, even an extra coverall and a pair of new chiral boots—certain that the pair he had given you were worn out after you had done... _whatever_ you had to while he was gone. In the end, he cannot show any restraint from spearing and harrowing guilt into himself after showing up to help you only now. He swallows down that mouthful of bile and words that certainly wouldn't relieve you of pain or does anyone justice, only moving forward and back to you. 

There was nothing he could ever do that could bring justice to what they— _he_ had done to you.

He makes sure to park the Cicada PHI just near the border of the enterprise, not wanting to draw wandering and curious eyes to find an escaped _‘zero’_ and their former target sitting in the back of a truck up-for-grabs, and he makes the chiral jump announced to his subordinates. Another thing he doesn’t want; people looking for him. He’s got enough of that already thanks to just a single, specific man. _Motherfucker_ , Higgs nearly hisses as he steps into the back of the truck. He slings the bags from off of his shoulders and rolls out the tension, preparing himself to go the extra to give your body a full examination before properly patching you up. However, as he veers his head to find you awake—wide-eyed and clutching a familiar knife—every coherent thought dissipates. 

“Li—” You move— _how the fuck are you still able to move_ —or, for lack of a better word, _lunge_ at him with a strength hard enough to knock him onto the ground—and Higgs begins to struggle against you as the weapon in your hands try to stab something important in him, “—Shit! Hey! Darlin’— _fuck_ —take it easy! Snap out of it and look at me. _Look at—”_

_How the fuck are you still strong enough to plunge the knife into his shoulder?_ Your true hysterical rage is red-tipped and cold, and all Higgs could feel from under you was the searing bite of steel. Callahan’s knife wasn’t exactly a piece worth keeping these days, sable-blades were mostly just for show—not like his golden. And it makes Higgs contrite, even a little bit disgusted, when it pierces into his skin—with your hands, nonetheless. You stab him over, and over, and over, _and over, and over._ Higgs sputters as the sanguine colors seep into his eyes and in the back of his throat. It burns, it hurts so goddamn much. But he keeps still. His hands finds your knees and holds them firmly, sliding them up the length of your thighs and rests his palms on your waist—the act of touching, holding you down—it grounds him to the fact that this was real. You were real. 

The pain, he could live with, but the fact that it was _you_ — _fucking **you?**_ Higgs let himself sulk in that kind of melancholy, he let you exhaust yourself out from stabbing him for a good twenty minutes, and he doesn’t even mind the trip back from the Seam. He dies there, in an abyssal pool of red, black, and white—cold and hot. Higgs hates those kinds of contrasts. But at least he settles with the sight of you toppling over when the strength in his hold no longer lasts while his vision pulls him back to the phantasmic ocean. It takes him a little longer than usual for his ka to find his ha, but Higgs is awash with relief as air flows through him again. Through darkness and bleak waters does he wake up with the moon in his eyes, finding your body kept close to whatever warmth of your own body you can salvage. Higgs’ body had undoubtedly turned cold, you couldn’t fight to stay awake when he came back full of life and elation.

You were alive. _Holy fucking shit_ —you were actually still fucking alive! The sight of your burning steel sky is still fresh behind his eyelids, but now that you here…

_Now that you’re here, you don’t know what the fuck to do._ It was hard enough to readjust to the moon’s luminesce even behind the ceiling of ashen stratus clouds that obstructed the edges of your periphery, making you question if anything at all was real. And it was even harder—hell, _excruciating_ —for you accept that the person who was responsible for trapping you in a shithole, approving days of physical, mental, and emotional torture, was right there. It provides some good reasons as to why you’d stab him. Standing above you, clad in black and gold, alive. At least, you think it was truly Higgs. Amelie’s illusions are damn impressive, but seemingly fickle. You see that Higgs—or Amelie, _whoever the fuck it was_ —is unarmed and that is all that mattered to you. You pour the last morsel of your strength into raising and slamming down your forearms. Red. All of it, everything you see is red. You’re so fucking tired. Every neuron, bone, and muscle in your body has been strained and torn, hanging out of your body like ribbons, and this is only a disservice for him after what you’ve been through.

Eventually, your energy dissipates, the pain finally catching up with you. The visceral groan that releases some measure of soreness is quick and fleeting, but the act of your lungs pulling and expanding; fucking breathing, is enough to ground yourself not to choke on your own consciousness. Soon enough, sleep begins to filter in with that obscurity hanging in your periphery—the world becomes even darker, lost on you completely. When slumber finally does claim you, you’re aware of feeling prudent to the idea of dreaming this time. Higgs was dead, but only for so long, and Amelie was surely trying to get her hooks back into you. Whatever reason Higgs has for coming back, you don’t even want to bother. Imagining things— _wondering_ —it was all whimsical and dizzying. However, whatever true God had decided to bless you with only silence and black, you’re grateful for it; everything for that good hour had reverted into melancholy and numbness. 

But in the end, you couldn’t say the same as you opened your eyes again. There he was again standing over you with his head almost in his hands. An inconsistency of murmurs reached your ears, something about a _‘promise’, ‘extra bacon’,_ and _‘shitty porters’_ while the rest is completely lost on you. But only when you move to roll out one of the layers of tension in your back does those words get clearer, louder, almost to the point where every sound that comes to you lingers with an echo. His shadow terrifies you more than his eyes, so real and so close that you flinch back far enough to press yourself against the rear panel of the truck. Higgs steadies you with his palms pressed into your knees, not at all something illusory or cruel, yet you still suspect that his true intentions are still so elusive. He reaches for your eyes with slow, tentative hands and waits for your approval—seeing that your head dug deeper into the metal frame, panicked and cautious. This wasn’t Higgs, you almost want to say, but you keep your mouth silent, allowing him to thumb away a stray, rolling tear.

Thereafter, you let yourself take in the space around you.

Along the lengths of your arms and legs, whatever minor and somewhat fixable injuries had been wrapped in bandage patches and gauze. Your wounds still weep but you take your attention elsewhere towards the major lacerations across your back. It was still sweltering, leaking, and _oh, so fucking painful_. You try to roll your shoulders back but Higgs captured them with his hands, easily and carefully, the ghostly touch of his bare hands was horrifically unnatural from him and for you. But from that—just that small, unexpected form of contact—your body thwarts and yanks further away, but Higgs doesn’t release you. If anything, he grips tighter.

“Hey, no. None of that,” Higgs’ commands leaves you with a shocking impression—the undertones of his voice seemingly has lost all cynicism, “Don’t...don’t move. _Fuck_ —you’re not dying on me. No, not today.”

It takes you a while, but somehow, after semi-adjusting to the heat of his bare skin, you just roll with it. What else are you supposed to do? What exactly _could_ you do? Higgs’ eyes never leave you, and quite frankly, you were tired of it. As Higgs maneuvers your torso sideways for him to see; examining, you suck in a tight breath through clenched teeth. You don’t even have to spare him an approving glance to let him do...whatever he thought was best. By then, you know he was tired of asking for permission. 

_“Today?”_ You find your own voice in the hollow pit of your stomach, gravely and hoarse, but at the same time, feeble and soft, “So, you did have a date scheduled somewhere.”

Higgs’ contronted expression then hardened, “Little—”

“—You know, I wonder if you’d still call me that even if I had my real name engraved on my tombstone,” Ignoring him completely, you let your head rest against the rear panel’s glass, often flickering your eyes against your own reflection— _so haggard_ , you think, “Granted, tombstones are illegal cause of necrosis. But then again, when has the law or my misery ever stopped you?”

From the sight of Higgs’ hand delving into your periphery, yet another defensive and instinctive alarm blares into your head. The heart in your throat jumps to the tip of your tongue, and the guttural noise that joins with that distress is a medley that even startles Higgs. Your hand snatches his wrists, twisting and pushing hard enough to send Higgs falling back onto the floor. The metal creaks and groans under his tumbling weight, while your own pushed further into the corner, trying to shrink yourself down into less of a target for whatever else was out there other than him— _wolves, possibly._ And from there, Higgs relearns the consequences of unwanted physical contact.

The both of you then begin to realize just how much you don’t understand each other.

* * *

This chapter took so much out of me but oh, man--was it WORTH IT. I can't believe that after seven chapters, SEVEN FCKING CHAPTERS, Higgs and Little Bird are finally back together in the same space omfg. Thank you all so much for your patience, love, and support. It's always so amazing when the content that I'm putting out is enjoyable, I'll keep doing my best! 


	22. Sehnsucht「22」

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚

_The stench of tuberose was making you sick... **fuck** , being next to him made you feel sick._

That sanguine— _and sinful_ —smile doesn’t do much for you anymore. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you practically lay dying. The light drizzle upon this barren, unknown land is all but numb and dizzying upon your senses that cannot even tell from left to right. You see him though, Higgs and all his black-and-gold divine glory, arms coated and smoking in grey and black. You were too out of it to pull away as his fingertips hovered just above your wounds, his other out-stretched hand kept you down, props to his DOOMs. His skills of medical expertise was as inept as his bedside manner; he doesn’t try to make conversation, knowing full-well that all you would do was growl, snarl, and snap. Barking doesn’t do much to dull the teeth in a bite. 

Truthfully, your mind walks through a field of fog whenever you try to remember how you ended up here in the first place, how Higgs could’ve found you. Pieces and fragments of memories was a slow collecting process. And you assumed that whatever it was that made you escape the territory— _adrenaline_ , possibly—singed off the ‘ _hard parts_ ’ of your flee. Most of them were soaked in red. You close your eyes and wince sharply at the retention that brings a severe heat like fire throughout your head and other inerrant parts in your body. Another aching stifle in your fingers is enough for Higgs to look at you again, his hands swallowed in wispy inky black and his eyes grown wide. The fuck is he looking at? 

You attempt to shift your legs under you, yet ultimately remain still—Higgs’ power works faster than you, “You either got better overnight or have a deathwish...come on. Go back to sleep. Lord knows you need every second of rest.”

You don’t believe those kinds of words. You’d be dead if you did. Higgs curls his fingers, making your legs shift on their own into a more comfortable position. You don’t let up on the leer or the silence, however, staring at him, watching with a ireful glare in your eyes as Higgs continues to do the unexpected. He doesn’t handle you like cracking glass anymore, if anything, he sees you as concrete crumbling.

_Unexpected_ , you think to yourself, _more like complete bullshit._

_None of this could even be real_ , you think. Such an idea that Amelie yet again tormented you with another one of her lethal schemes wasn’t entirely ridiculous—she did seem like the kind of woman who liked to keep you on your toes. Though, that might just be her way with politics. Higgs himself was kept right under her thumb, doing such a thing like mending and protecting you after approving your days of hellish torture filled you with confusion. And soon enough, the rage filtered in, all that anger. You’ve suppressed those hysterics for, what, four— _six days?_ Killing him didn’t take away a third of your anger, and you’re certain with how much you try to maintain a distance, that Higgs doesn’t bother with your boundaries, at all. That part surely could be real, everything else, every part of him could just be one, giant illusion. A big, fat lie. _He is a lie._

Higgs still doesn’t let up with his DOOMs, everything from the neck down is completely and utterly pervious and disobedient to the fearful electric impulses firing into your bones—practically screaming bloody murder to get away from Higgs as he begins to come closer. His hand that was free of writhing shadows stooped low to the side of your neck, hovering first before applying a forceful pressure after you tried to veer away. The contact—the warmth of his skin—the very feeling of him unnerved you to your core. Pulpy wounds leaked again, staining the edges of white onto your bandages and were even tattered with increments of black. He was doing this to you, he was making it worse—poisoning you. Don’t touch— _don’t fucking touch me!_ You snarl, bite, kick, but don’t scream. You can’t, you don’t have the strength to keep your head stiff within his hand and yell at the same time. 

Higgs doesn’t look too troubled by your squirming and writhing, if anything, he acts like you weren’t fighting him at all. All he does is just wait for you to tire yourself out, feeble and trying—a prey in the jaws of a predator. He doesn’t react, he looks as though you didn’t kill him last night—not that it fucking mattered anyway. He acted like he didn’t put you through this in the first place, his eyes wide and patient. No storms brewing just...empty and calming billows of clouds. Eventually, somehow, you go through the motions of exhaustion. You stop, breathe, and stare back at Higgs who still has not said a word. 

If he really did know that nothing he could say would ever fix this, then he was smarter than you gave him credit for.

Your breath stops altogether as Higgs’ forehead pressed against yours. It’s quiet, calm, and warm; peaceful. _This was a new form of benign cruelty,_ you think, he’s doing this while keeping you still—holding you down. Higgs’ eyes just momentarily graze the edges of your periphery, and even from that sliver of slate-blue, there was stillness and so, _so_ much agitation. Those ocean pigments swayed you enough to keep your neck still, but that doesn’t at all stop you from fighting the tension, the fire racing in your numbed veins that tries to get you to move even just another inch. He’s warm, unbearably so—whatever’s left of you that you can still feel is tingling; electric, almost. Higgs eventually pulls away, frowning, his movements slower and less clipped—he wasn’t in a hurry. _Fuck, if anything he **wanted** to stay_, you internally hiss.

“Your fever is getting worse. Might have to make another trip back to camp for more meds.” 

You hold your heart in your mouth as Higgs turns his head away, overlooking the formation of clouds that roll and billow near the mountain ridges, where he hoped that the grey edges would stop just before his camp. The venom coating your tongue rolls behind your teeth and you muscle your neck from his grip with a rigid flinch backwards. You’re still unrelenting and stubborn, not wanting to show that you were just sitting idly by, waiting for death towards the crumbling world and everything in it that just wants to keep kicking you forward—Higgs wants to help you. You’d rather not exhaust yourself further by laughing at that.The absence of his levity was surely one, great cosmic joke.

“I don’t fucking need anything from you,” You grunt through your teeth, huddling yourself to the other end of the truck-bed, wincing at the muscles in your backside that pull taut as you bring your knees to your chest, “I do not need...whatever the fuck this is. Whatever the hell you’re trying to pull here.”

You turn away and avert your eyes from Higgs’ that was surely rolling out of their sockets, “Even with me dying a thousand times over, I can’t bleed enough for you to make any of this right. So, there’s no point in either of us looking forward to crawling into an open-casket here.”

He’s right, you know that much, but your truculence meets his eyes anyway, “It’s not about dying, shit-for-brains. It’s about ending the pain.”

“Then, let me help you. One step at a time. Starting with some proper meds and antibiotics.” Higgs’ hand begins to reach for your arm—your skin that itches, throbs, and aches, and you immediately flinch deeper into the wall.

Higgs awaits something, then; a nod, another glare, a huff or hitch in your breath, fuck, anything. Your back is faced to him—glistening, oozing, and entirely red—and it takes a staggering amount of time before the heart in his own mouth hardens enough for him to swallow. The gut-wrenching reel in his stomach allows him to finally tear his eyes away. He did this, yeah, he fucking knows that, but how were you still so stubborn with infected, bone-deep cuts the size of his arms? His head shifts over his shoulder, finding that the end of the storm, luckily, stopped right near the edge of where his camp is. Though, the sound of the distant, rumbling thunder does no comfort. To him or you. And, in one, silent chiral jump; he’s gone.

You find some voracious semblance towards slumber, but it does not take you kindly.

The world teeters on black and white in this familiar, phantasmal dream of yours. It makes you feel nauseous, clumsy, where you fall on all fours when the bottomless pit of colors begin to sink and suck you in. The cascade of chills rolling down your aching spine worsens the pace of your breath—you don’t trust this, you can no longer find loneliness in your own dreams anymore. Not since Amelie twisted and dug too deep into haunting memories that God himself would surely never forgive, she corrupted the realm of your own damned mind. At this point, you queried how in the world your psyche had not been completely shattered already? Everything flashes, it’s all static, and when you leverage your eyes shut again, the hissing noise melts into cracks of gunfire.

Fire—you hear the violent cracks of cinders, sparks between a firing bullet and a loaded barrel, and you can smell the miasmic sulfur of the explosives that destroyed the incinerator intended to burn you. Ardency seeps from the corners of your mouth that gnaws on your raw lips, it feels like you were burning from the inside-out, and you don’t hold back on the overdue scream. The heat worsens the ache in your back and you pry open your eyes, seeing white that coats the ground—your hands and knees—falling from the sky that reeks of older flowers. It’s still fucking black and white; your _home_ now, crawling through the snow during that night. 

_“Get the hell back in the bunker!”_ The voice of your father provides some pretense of what was truly happening around you; yet another memory, _“Listen to me, goddammit! Stay there! Stay right fucking there!”_

You find the vexing silhouette of your father screaming out to your past-self in the red snow, wielding that cursed knife. His hands were full with a loaded rifle pointed right at the space between your eyes, yet you watched— _you remember_ , even—as defiance shone through you like a beacon; you weren’t scared. Not at all. Under your knees is your mother’s stomach that was almost cut open completely, a shallow cut just below her swollen womb, even from where you laid, you could still hear the loud sniffles of your mother as she weeped. She cried for her own life, as for Rowan’s. Yet, she did not dare to voice her pleas to her daughter that only held her arms out. You watched as you— _she_ stared down her father with red in her eyes, pure vitriolic red, hissing heated breaths behind her teeth that just wouldn’t warm the blue on her lips.

_“Just let me do this,”_ You say— _she_ says, pearly tears collecting at the end of narrowed, enraged eyes, _“Let me do this, dad. I can protect him! It’ll be fine. Everything—shit—everything will be fucking fine!”_

_No, no it won’t_ , you close your eyes again, your hands clasped over your side—shakily clamped around your round scar.

_“Everything is just one, shitty lie! We’re all living lies! We can’t protect each other from this shithole of a planet! You can’t protect me! Or Rowan! I can do it!”_

_**No, you fucking can’t!** _

The world moves again with the crack of a gunshot. Melting reds, whites, and black, taking everyone down with it, the mountains becoming flatter, molten, and completely forgotten. Your past-self goes down with the shot of your father’s bullet lodged in her side just above her hip bone. You avert your eyes and pray to whatever god is left that you wake up and forget the burn on your own side. The swivel of color brings another surge of anxiousness—another twist of pain into your back—and you can’t suppress the scream that’s heavy in your chest. Everything sinks into the floor, bringing you down with it. Your voice is ultimately kept at a paucity, colors seeping and filling the corners of your mouth that crawls into the back of your throat. You’re drowning— _oh, god_ —you’re fucking drowning.

When the echo of a baby’s cry begins to resonate throughout the encompassing darkness, your psyche laces back together with your body. The touch that your ka makes with your ha now feels whimsical and almost thrilling. But you know not to let your guard down as you pried open your eyes, awake this time, for real, and peering into Higgs’ back. He knelt close to the floor, his hands shuffling, digging through a duffle bag that was mottled with red. His movements are rigid and impatient, providing some increment of context that he may have had to beat someone into the ground in order to get this— _for you, no less_. The red and white void-out logo marked on the side then makes your stomach churn, perturbed, wide eyes snapping forward to meet Higgs’ gaze. 

The particle of God is hardly surprised that you didn’t get a full hour of sleep, rendered into a clumsy, almost hysterical mess. Tentative eyes graze over the lacerations cleaved into you as you twist and turn. He knows he should stop you, but he also knows that you wouldn’t let him do so easily. Your wrath exceeds past your own skin, the red that both of you saw becoming ubiquitous—a thick tension that neither of you have the energy, or even the heart, to break. He watches as you thrash about for a few more seconds, wrangling in the dark mess that was his cloak; bloody, torn, arduously wrinkled. The next instance of his vision flashes with an ivory and red crown— _horns_ —as he remembers the old beast that laid bloody, wrapped inside the fabric. He _couldn’t_ —he **_didn’t_** do anything but utter a slew of half-assed apologies, he did nothing but stare in the rain as the animal died on his watch. He panics then, for lack of a better word, rushing to your side and doesn’t at all take your unyielding and horrified disgruntled reactions into consideration that he might be making you worse.

His hands move faster than his DOOMs. Higgs stops you from moving anymore, keeping you under his thumb—his grip, and doesn’t relent even when you rasp out wails and shrieks. Your laconic resilience is harder this time, but within a shorter duration. You’re spent after sending him back into the Seam, exhausted from the waves of pain that had finally swallowed you whole, rendered into nothing but an empty, defeated husk trying to prove themself for nothing. You bite down the bitter realization that you’re useless against him this time, trying to show the last remaining semblance of dignity in your eyes; a final ireful glare. It makes you contrite— _so fucking frustrated_ —that Higgs is not moved. He waits until the tension drops in your shoulders, your knees, even the crown of your head. The red that he sees now fades into a bleak white; you’re listening. **_Fucking finally._**

His DOOMs lessen in severity, your arms awash with a sense of freedom and a throbbing numbingness as they close across your chest. Higgs doesn’t relent in your shoulders, however, keeping them pulled back and firm—turning them slowly to make your back face him. He’s as careful as he can be without touching you yet, and you know at this point that he won’t be asking for permission. But it wasn’t like you had the strength to tell him no or fight him off anyway. Higgs traces with a single digit the rims of your torn flesh, and already, you suck in a tight wince through your teeth. Pearls collect at the corner of your narrowed eyes, but it doesn’t seem to bother Higgs in the slightest yet; he hasn’t moved his finger away. The glistening sanguine that you can see stained on your bicep makes your stomach churn, and you avert your eyes for a distraction in the wilderness.

Unfortunately for you, Higgs became that distraction as his voice obscures your focus from the mountain ridges.

“Think you can bear with me for a couple more seconds, darlin’?” 

A grunt chafes your throat, but you white-knuckle through the effort, “Not like I have anything better to do.”

Higgs’ eyes become caustic—storm-brewed—before he uses his knuckles to push back and examine the lesion, “You did at one point.”

“And look how far I got,” You stifle a sigh heavy in your chest, “To think I could’ve made it a foot away from you without running into trouble...believing that I wouldn’t be held captive and tortured by your little Homo Demen friends. Stupid, little naive me. Guess that’s my fault…right?”

Higgs concludes that the wound is bone-deep, suppressing a groan when he sees a sliver of ivory between the walls of purple and red, “That wasn’t their job...just to be clear.”

_“Nooo. No way, really?_ _,”_ You drawl sarcastically, rolling your wide eyes, “It couldn’t have. What was it, then? Prep? I don’t know what you terrorists do or how you do things. At least, not with them. When I was your captive, all I got was handcuffs. Again; stupid, little naive me—”

“—Stop it.” Higgs snaps quietly, rendering the venomous heart in your mouth to worm back into your chest.

Your back pulses with another throbbing ache as Higgs’ palm ghosted over the lesion, and you had to catch his wrist again to prevent him from being too close. Higgs wordlessly understands the silent command and pulls away, going back to dig through the duffle bag for more supplies. Meanwhile, you’re just too enthralled by this moment as Higgs was acting...real. There’s no levity to this situation, after everything you’ve seen, you expected him to make some sort of slap-stick remark to how stupid you could’ve been. You braced yourself with a punishing pinch to the cheek as he scolded you for not listening to him—staying with him so that you could’ve been saved from a week of hellish torture. But, _no_. There’s none of that. He’s silent and calculating here, using this charisma to fucking help you.

You don’t understand. _And how could you?_ He approved of it, for fuck’s sake. Yet, instead of dwelling within that pit of irony, you choose to waste your time bracing for any more pain. Higgs’ bedside manner has taken a turn, yes, but you sincerely hope that his medical skills hadn’t. He comes back to your side with a courier strap, a golden zippo, Callahan’s knife, and a shit-ton of gauze in his arms, and immediately, the spark of panic racing through your tired veins is kept as a paucity. Your eyelids are just barely kept open to see the sliver of equipment that he has assembling, watching as Higgs raises the leather courier strap to your chin. It’s questionable, but you sink your teeth down into the stiff band anyway. Higgs handles your jaw with one hand, keeping the strap from falling, while the other flips open the golden lid. A click echoes from behind you, and you can just barely register the large flame and dark beauty that Higgs wielded with tentative hands. A bright scarlet brushes against the sable blade that somewhat glows. At that point, the panic becomes disturbingly verbal and writhing—Higgs has to keep the hand on your jaw firmly still as you try to inch away from him. If you roll over, _fuck_ , he might, too.

“Hey, look at me,” Higgs maneuvers throughout this new propinquity, pulling you closer, cradling you tight while his hand bodily captures your full attention, _“Sweet pea,”_

_He’s never said that before_ , you think hazily, _great, another nickname_ — a vexing annoyance rising in your chest.

“Sweet pea,” He calls again, the zippo and Callahan’s knife in his hand reaching your backside—provoking another wave of panic, “Easy, c’mon. Look at me. Just focus on me.”

_“I—I **can’t—”**_

**“—Focus,”** His voice becomes breathless and uneven now, where you felt a harrowing heat crawl up the length of your spine, _“Please.”_

You spent all that time bracing yourself for fucking nothing because of that panic. The flame consumes the entirety of your mangled psyche while the heated blade presses into your severed wings. There’s not a moment for you to realize that this was the answer to your prayers; _godless prayers_ , but prayers, nonetheless. Higgs is there, wrangling against your body to keep you still as he slowly guides the fire up to your shoulder blades. He listens to a warbled mess of whimpers, violent hiccups in your breath, but no screams. You physically _cannot_ scream, and he hates it. The quietness is somehow worse for him. The red handle of Callahan’s knife is shaky in his palm, finishing his work with a rushed, clumsy flicking wrist. He then becomes hyper-aware of the sound of sizzling flesh and an acrid odor that begins to filter in his senses. The wounds are immensely deep, ultimately choosing to care for the inner depths before finishing the surface with stitches, disheartened at the fact that this was grueling enough. By the time you catch your breath, Higgs is already running the zippo’s flame against Callahan’s knife. You’d like to flail, hack, or cleave into him like his subordinates did to you, but you forget that there are two wings, after all. Higgs presses the searing blade into your other wound, and another wave of pain induces a dreamless sleep. 

And all the while, Higgs has his cheek pressed atop the crown of your head, whispering lively, ardent apologies as if you were dead already.

The two of you decide to play it safe and let the cauterization settle for a day before moving onto stitching. The slabs of raw pink, red, and sliver of white no longer leak onto Higgs’ palms, only weeping at the edges that he occasionally wipes away with a clean cloth. You listen to him humming as he does so absentmindedly, kindling some curious pretense that he’s got some caliber for such a thing as talent. You’d like to snort at that thought, had it not been for the sharp inch in your ribs coming out first. Higgs moved like clockwork throughout this unprecedented routine, going through the motions of removing, cleaning, and rewrapping your wounds—taking care of you. Yet, you didn’t have the energy nor the levity to laugh at something like that. Higgs doesn’t make a ton of conversation, thank god, giving you time to reevaluate and reflect upon the situation you were in.

Being held captive already doesn’t give you a ton of options; there are Homo Demens already trekking and making camp across America, who are surely on high-alert searching for you. If Higgs were to give the word that no harm was to come to you, his mantle of power would be questioned—Amelie would know of Higgs’ ‘betrayal’ to her ultimate plan of decimation, and there was no escape from her wrath. The forces of the dead would surely follow you to the ends of the Earth, not just America. Making company with the Elysian was out of the question, too; Homo Demens were searching for them. If you’re caught, it’d be killing two birds with one stone. Rummaging through your options brought upon more of a fervorous headache to your fever, so you let Higgs do the thinking for you. Quite frankly, you were only certain of one thing; the faster you get better, the sooner you can be away from Higgs. 

You now had to count on two hands how long you were away from the ‘ _comfort_ ’ of your bunker, assessing that you were under Higgs’ care for only about three days. In the zenith of a cloudy, rainy sunset, Higgs had finally finished tending to your minor wounds that were finally losing their infectious symptoms. They throb less and ooze slower, you just know that Higgs had to suppress some vulgar comment as he finished wrapping them with gauze. With the orange storm lingering above your head, hitting the nylon tarp that protected you from wrinkled skin, you see that Higgs is searching in the distance for some semblance of another living being’s presence. The corners of your lips slant and your eyes narrow with some measure of skepticism. 

“How did you find me?” You ask quietly, watching as Higgs turned to face you with an elfin grin tugging against his mouth.

“I give you two of my canteens and your voice still sounds like rocks against sandpaper,” Higgs suppresses a haughty chuckle as he sees your vehement glare, “I followed the singing. And the crying. A mix of both, really. It was easy to pick out from the storm. Always a natural gift from you, little bird.”

An awful chill runs up your spine, and discomfort churns your stomach near your bullet-scar, “Okay, I get it. Just...please. Stop.”

Silence. Pure, fucking silence. 

“Are you...angry with me?”

Your eyes snap forward, and the overdue laugh heavy in your chest is rendered into a single, incredulous huff, “Why would I be angry? Does that matter? _You weren't even there.”_

You’re then blessed with a piteous twist in Higgs’ brows as he tries to kneel closer to your side—his hand rising to meet your shoulder, “Of course, it matters, sweet pea. Look at you—”

Your slap his hand away, rancor and red seeping into your blazing eyes, “—I don’t need you to tell me to look, Higgs. I can fucking feel it good enough.”

The cover of the torture report and its contents are still very fresh memories, those lessons and demonstrations still burned behind your eyelids. You thrash away from those memories that soon become layered with new ones; the sensations and waves of pain that you felt when Higgs was helping you. The burn becomes an itch that you’re too horrified to scratch, shaking away from the leer that Higgs sends you for nearly prying open new crevices for blood to seep out of. In the end, however, as he looks again at those dripping rubies that roll off bruises and other cuts, he reminds himself that he was in the wrong, too. He suppresses that exasperated, heaving sigh. He maintains his distance, but makes sure that his words reach every part of you.

“Little bird, listen—”

“—Why in the _world_ should I listen to you?”

Yet again, Higgs suppresses another sigh—even a groan, _“Sweetheart—”_

“—Listening to you is what got me here in the first place,” Higgs knows that, you think, to some extent, “Letting you into my life, letting you stay there. Helping and _saving_ someone like you—”

“—Darlin’, please,” Higgs inches closer, shortening your strict proximity, where he wants to just swoop in close and assure you face-to-face, “Just... _please_. Listen to me for a minute. Just one minute.”

_He should know, shouldn’t he?_ Nothing he could say can really take away the pain.

“I...I knew somewhere along the way, you were going to get hurt. But I just couldn’t figure out how, exactly. If it was either by me or my men—”

“—Well, congratulations,” You snarl quietly, “You were right about one of them— _oh, I'm sorry,_ **two** of them. I'm glad you had some kind of certainty and did absolutely nothing to stop it. So, thanks. Thanks for that.”

Within the increment of a second and your ardent breath, Higgs manages to make a chiral jump in front of you, frowning deeply; **_sincerely_**.

“Little bird, I didn't think it _wouldn't_ be me,” 

_What in the fucking hell is he_ —he fucking **approved** of this. That’s what Callahan said. Higgs approved the notion of your torture. You try to peer into the dark, whimsical storms on his face to try and discern why on god’s green earth does he look so pitiful. Concerned. Worried. _Fucking apologetic_. His expression does no measure of mollification, if anything, you just wanted to beat him senseless even more. And you don’t deny that without his help, you wouldn’t have the energy to do so. But you’re merely left frigid and still, caught between ruminating if what you bear witness to was because of nature or nurture. His own men sculpted you into some ruinous masterpiece on his orders, but you wonder if they were truly doing what they were told. If Higgs knew that the _‘zero’_ was his _‘little bird’_. If anything, unfortunately, he already looks sorry enough.

“I thought...it was gonna be me.”

You cannot, however, shake away from the realization that... _he_ _knew_. _He **knew** it was you._

There is a silence that settles onto these layers of tension. You’re awash with memories of your torture that only bring a itch to your wounds, the kind that urges your fingers to claw than scratch. Callahan and Maisie eventually evanesce and turn faceless, they morph and turn into phantasmal horrors that all smell like tuberose. They’re all of Higgs. They worked on his orders, nonetheless, and there was nothing that could change that. _So, here he was_ , you think defeatedly, _pouring his heart out to you. For nothing? Maybe. But that’s up to you_ , you decide.

“Some of it, though. Some of it was you,” The calmness in your low voice startles Higgs entirely, but smartly, he chooses not to complain, “I knew you weren't going to come for me. And a part of me felt glad that you didn't. You wouldn't have had to see me defeated and broken over the fact that you won, because that's what gets you off, right? Watching me suffer from your choices as a herald? _Amelie's_ herald?” 

“I didn't want that.” His honesty makes you skeptical, your mouth twisting to bare your teeth.

“Well, for fuck's sake, what did you want then? What wasn't on the torture report that you would've wanted to see for yourself? That you would've done that was far better than hacking me to pieces?”

Higgs rakes his hands through his hands before trying to reach your shoulders again, “None of it— _fuck_ —little bird—”

_His little bird_ , Callahan’s word echo in your head, _it’s always **his** fucking little bird!_

“— _Stop it!_ Stop calling me that! I'm not your little bird, Higgs! I'm just a fucking porter! I am part of the whole that you're trying to blow up, aren't I!? I'm just a speck of dust in this existence with no purpose. I am not like you! Why should I mean anything to some stupid, all-powerful fuck-up like you!? _You_ — _you_ have a purpose, _a reason_ —a fucking job to do—staying alive just to end it for others. Before I had a chance to figure out my own job. Can't you see how unfair it is? How cruel you are? You ruined me, Higgs. You fucking ruined me,”

Your string of outbursts, shockingly, doesn’t stop Higgs’ hands from capturing your shoulders. He is there to listen—like he always did—wanting to stay by your side until this premature end of his making. He finds you thrilling to some extent, human in whatever’s the rest, but your indifferent and caustic nature is a reminder that people have some capability of dignity. You always wanted to kick the bucket your way, become the master of your own fate. Higgs was left breathless repeatedly from the likes of you; your defiance and compliance, even now. Even as you’re rendered into a warbling mess of tears.

“I just...I just wanted to be alone. That was the first step. Whether I died or lived, it didn't matter how; I just wanted to be alone,” Higgs doesn’t move, looming even closer now with tentative movements, “But, in the end, that was my fault. That was my choice. I left. I've always ran away. From you, from my parents, from America...I only have myself to blame for thinking it would've been so easy.”

Higgs’ hands cradle your shoulders, and so easily do you become mesh with his warmth, “It was easy though, wasn't it? Look how far you've gotten. You would've made it without those fucks tearing up your back. Without me.”

“Then, why did you insist on being bound in the first place?” You ask, trying to believe that the innocent and honesty that he was showing you was real.

“I didn't insist on it. It just...happened,” Higgs sighs deeply, eyes roving over the distance towards where America should be over the mountain ridges, disheartened that it was so far away, “It was only clear to me back at the bunker that it was nice to just try and keep it that way, to stay with you. Fuck, maybe it was clear to me even before that. I just acted, darlin'. I'm not...supposed to think.”

You almost laugh, “Yeah, I know. Because Amelie does that for you.”

Higgs doesn’t know if he should either. 

The memories of torture also remind you of your dream with Amelie. Of how she was in Higgs’ skin, taunting and trying to pervade over your memories and control. You don’t know yet if you should tell Higgs or if he was even in on her plan. In the end, you choose their silence; your own words that come spilling out with a mouthful of venom.

“I don't know what to believe anymore. I can't tell if you're being classic old Higgs or just...Higgs.”

As you peer up at him, watching as those dark storms breach the corners of his eyes, you’re worried you struck below the belt again, “Do you know who that truly is? Do you have any idea?” 

“I don't know,” You answer breathlessly, trying to remember the question he asked back at your bunker, “Maybe? Do you? I might've seen it before you cauterized me. Or when I saw the look on your face when you first found me. I don't know what went through your head but...it's nothing I've ever seen before. Fuck, it might've looked like you were worried.”

You don’t know why, but his innocent and sincere smile horrifies you enough to laugh.

“And...if I was?”

“Then, I'd ask you to stop.” You shrug, your gaze rising towards the horizon that just won’t stop raining.

Higgs almost frowns, “Why?”

Another shrug, maybe even a hint of lamentation in your distracted, enthralled eyes, “Pity. I hate that.”

“Well, what if I cared than pitied you?”

“That's even worse,” You stifle down another snort, leaning your shoulder into the truck’s rear panel as you listen to the rain pattering against the nylon tarp, “I don't...I wouldn't want to say you're even capable of something like that. Caring about me. Not now...that's the last thing I want.”

Higgs looks genuinely curious now, “Well, what would you need right now?”

Silence, at first, and then, your half-assed smile.

“Warmth...as a start.”

_“Warmth?”_ Higgs skeptically repeats, the moon’s incandescence reflecting off his eyes.

You nod; you haven’t been so sure of anything before.

It’s all so still and gratifying for some reason. From the moment he presses his back against the wall to when you rest your head against his chest, the silence and warmth you’ve almost died for was, dare you say it, peaceful. You haven’t had that in a long time; a nostalgic trip. Though your wounds still weep and the pain has only lessened by a fraction, you’re smart enough to block out the troubles. Your natural affinity to avoid chaos and disorder isn’t living off of borrowed time anymore, not with a repatriate taking the blows for you, no matter how many times he visits the Seam. The world and its cosmic jokes seem to pull back from the radiance of your warmth, exceeding misfortunate and other trials that test your patience. You don’t have much to spare, honestly, and you wouldn’t mind beating down anyone who thins that amount. You’ve killed people, there’s no going back from that— _in self-defense_ , no less. Higgs knows this. He doesn’t tell you that he knows, but you’re certain that he knows. You can tell that he can sense the miserable, dripping ichor, the metallic, acrid scent pervade his clairvoyance when you press into him closer. He doesn’t vocalize his findings, but you know it perturbs him to some extent. 

After all, you did it to him so easily.

“Maybe just...one other thing.” Your meek voice is somehow a comfort to him over the downpour of this cursed rain—regular old timefall. 

Higgs answers easily, resting his temple against the crown of your head, his chest heaving with unfamiliarity, “Anything.”

“The sun. I wanna see the sun,” You take in every bit of Higgs’ surprise, and yet you remain resolved and indifferent, “It's been raining ever since...you came. It scares me a little.” 

Higgs agrees with you on that, beginning to smile, “You want me to stop the storm?”

A hopeful look crosses your features, “Please?”

“Okay.”

  
  


* * *

## WHEW.

Okay. I saved myself from making another three week gap between chapters. thank you everyone so much for your patience, support, and love! it means so, so much to me! we've been waiting for this chapter for a long time, huh? we're finally at the half way point!!!! I'm so excited! it's all smooth [ and rough ] sailing from here on out! 

##    
  



	23. Retrouvaille「23」

## 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐮𝐥

_So noisy...so much fucking **noise**._

If the world had been quieter, you would’ve found solace in the back of the cicada PHI that drove across such a bumpy terrain. Instead, you simply huddled deeper into the passenger seat cushions, trying your hardest not to wither away from the consistent wind that lashed against your face. The biting chill of the evening made it so painfully difficult not to get swept up in yet another unnerving mindset. Though, it was hard to say that while the ire that still sizzled within your bones that just wanted to make you get up and run away with the gale. And even worse, you would’ve had the strength to kill Higgs again. But you restrained yourself with a white-knuckling effort; you needed a driver, anyway. And although his skills in anything else rather than killing and being an idiot was already so inept, you begrudgingly stomached the possibility that you’d die from Higgs’ reckless driving than six days of hellish torture. Either way, Higgs had been a part of both of those ways to perish. 

The sun had set not too long ago, so it was within both of your interests that you’d stop to find shelter rather than risk trekking through the night. Higgs remarked that there are certain terrors other than BTs or the dead, things that he could not control; animals, ruins covered in indomitable pools of tar, and ‘ _men who have long lost their way_ ’. You assume they were foreigners, but upon peering into the light wrinkle of disgust that pinched at Higgs’ face, you leaned more onto the idea that they were either more terrorists or the Elysian. You ruminate then how Nebula and Nimbus were faring. Her troops had all made it out, scathed but together. Going out of your way to thank them was out of the question, however, not with Higgs here for you now. What would you even say to them at that? Not all of them were eager to bring you along back to their base, especially not that Ingrid woman.

Higgs maintains a calming silence, mostly to just let the realization sink in that— _holy fucking shit_ —you were alive! You were fucking alive. You hadn’t burned away with your steel sky, and the lamenting of his guilt had finally subsided. But although what he found was excruciatingly worse than he’d expected, Higgs was over the moon that you were just here. By his side. There was nobody else around to compel him to give you up to the demons he commanded, and Amelie’s badgering voice became nothing but an echo. His memory of coming back from the Seam does wonders to muffle everything else, the watery whispers fade into the drum of his heartbeat.

It beats harder, now, and that hasn’t happened before. But Higgs expects nothing less from someone as abstruse you. A natural talent, an affinity that Higgs knows of far too well—your effect on him is both a whimsical bliss and terrifying at the same time. When his heart stutters, he wonders what could’ve happened if he had been a second too late; letting you fall into that faultline, sinking into the abyss, your body trapped between sharp and suffocating crevices that would eventually crush your bones into nothing but chunky slop. 

His ireful leer then goes from the inky black and green wilderness to meet your reluctant gaze. Upon meeting each other’s eyes, it strikes curiosity between the two of you; _what could a person like them be thinking about, right now?_ You, on one hand, don’t make murderers or terrorists a regular company, so dwindling on cluelessness was so annoyingly familiar. There, your own sins bring a frightening chill upon the nape of your neck, and you desperately try to wipe them away with a clumsy wrist. But, all you can feel is a sweltering warmth that is foul and sticks to your skin; bloody.

It coats from your fingertips to your elbows and the sight of you worrying about that revelation unnerves Higgs. He, on the other hand, doesn’t know what to make of your frame of mind anymore. Were you still angry? He confessed nothing but the truth when he said he didn’t know what you had been through, that everything wasn’t supposed to go that far. But all he wonders if what he said truly mattered in the first place. He uses his turn signal— _idiot—_ as he spots in the near distance, a hollow crevice within a lone mountain. Shelter, he hopes. Silence, you hope.

“I’ll finish stitching you up, soon. Don’t worry.” His voice provides an incentive that your own revelation is a needless, poor illusion.

_Don’t worry,_ he says. And for some reason, you can trust that. 

Higgs’ poor driving skills do eventually pay off; the substantial cave was convenient enough and just a third of the distance away between the fault line you nearly died in and the mountains that border America. The mouth of the cavern was tall enough to fit the Cicada PHI, although the two of you cringed deeply as you heard the roof of the vehicle unleash a shrill groan as it scraped against the rocks. There, you would swear to yourself that by tomorrow, you’d be the one driving. The evening sky enamored your focus, the dim glow of the night stars guide toward a horizon that serves as a distraction from the remnants of pain.

Nights like this were hard to come by, so you count every second until the piercing moonlight no longer takes your breath away. You don’t even mind that you’re enjoying this next to Higgs, who had taken up the task on creating a bonfire. _The zippo ran dry,_ he’s muttering almost incoherently with venom on his teeth, _stupid fuckin’ thing_. As you peer over out of sheer impulse, you find it undeniably hilarious watching him hectically bash two rocks together on a bunch of dead leaves and sticks, and you manage an easy, loud snort when he accidentally crushed two of his fingers. _Oh yeah_ , he’s an idiot, alright. It almost seemed like a camaraderie.

Once the frigidity of the night becomes too much to bear for a second longer, you eventually squirm out from the passenger seat and limp to his side. His efforts— _his care_ , if that’s what you could call it—then became more pitiful than humorous. The creases on his ridiculous-equation forehead scrunched harder, irked upon seeing your mirthful grin peer closer near his face. Let alone, you had actually walked up beside him—you shouldn’t be, you should’ve been resting—but Higgs buries his face in his hands and the walls rumble from his echoing huff of frustration, letting you do the work.

There’s something absolutely hysterical about a god being unable to create a single puff of smoke with his bare hands and rocks, while his other goons and their bombs are capable of wiping out cities in a great, hellish inferno. The rocks clatter near your feet. You snort again, earning yourself a grueling whine from Higgs as he now watches you take only one of the rocks and wiggle your fingers expectantly for the dark beauty—Callahan’s knife—clasped to his belt next to a handgun—a Beretta 92. Although, the look on his face doesn’t exactly look so eager nor willing, to which you give him a tight-lipped pout.

“Your knife. Not your gun, cowboy.” You grumble out before he shrugs his shoulders mirthfully.

“Doesn’t matter; I’m still worried. Whichever and no matter what I give you, you could kill me with it easily. You could choke me to death with a slice of pizza. Hell, and I’d let you choke me with a pizza, that shit’s impressive,” Between your disgust and amusement, you snatch the knife and get to work—striking the rock against the sable blade, “But, you get the idea. Easier for you to work with this stuff than me. Some of us didn’t have Bear Grylls as our daddy, little bird.” 

A breath of candor laughter leaves you easily, and Higgs cautiously watches the dull flickers in your eyes as sparks begin to ignite, “I don’t know who that is or how you know a guy with the same name as a five-hundred pound carnivore, but it sounds like he’s a whole lot better at you at starting a simple fire.”

Higgs sputters for a moment, then folds his arms to release one proud, incredulous huff, “Yeah, right. If bashing at rocks is all it takes for you two, then all I need to do is shoot at a bunch of dry grass and _boom_ —instant flames!”

“Shooting problems isn’t the answer to everything, Higgs.” You deadpan, to which he scoffs and points at the knife in your hands that finally ignites a flurry of sparks and a growing smoke.

“Then, I guess we can both agree that stabbing always works instead.” When he brandishes a golden blade, an uneasy, shuddering breath leaves you—and yet, Higgs is _still_ smiling.

“I hate you.”Your laughter falls short in being genuine, but Higgs is convinced enough as he tucks it away with care.

The fire is calm and small—but it’s a start. It still burns terribly as you hold it in your hands.

“Something happened to me, Higgs. On the beach.”

You can easily feel the way his fingers twitch against your back, the warmth of his flesh becoming your only promising distraction from the fact that Higgs was piercing a needle and thread into your skin fifteen times over. The two-hour long process was nearly anemic, you choked on the dry air each time he threaded and pulled together the slabs of your torn muscles. The force of his care ushers a continued string of pellucid pearls and sputtering, laborious breaths.

It was even easier to discern how Higgs might’ve looked upon your statement; there was the sound of a click—his jaws have clenched—and the sting at the back of your head—he must’ve been glaring. You sense the potency of rancor and restrain yourself from saying anything more until he was ready—his divinity was still mandated by Amelie, after all—and he gives you his incentive to continue as another sharp pain pierces into your right shoulder blade. _Why would he be angry for you for something like that?_

“Should I be concerned that we’re being watched?” Higgs asks in a low voice, but you shake your head slowly.

“You should know the answer to that better than I do,” You grit your teeth and wipe away another rolling tear, Higgs’ needle pierced a bit too deep, “But you should be cautious and curious, I guess. I don’t know what happened. But things are starting to become different,”

Higgs doesn’t answer that—he doesn’t know what has happened to you in detail yet—so you don’t find him completely at fault when all you’re met with is silence.

“For starters, my father contacted me—”

“—What would that old fuck want with you?” The uneasiness heavy in your chest is enough to let Higgs continue his abrasive words, “How long ago was this? You didn’t reply to him back, right? Crazy shit-bag might just wanna shoot you again.”

Your heart stings horribly upon that insinuation, but for some peculiar reason, you begin to think the same way, too. After so long, why would your father contact you, really? As you so vividly remember those pathetic three sentences, you question why he decided to give any thought about your safety, especially since you were outed for being ‘ _in-contact_ ’ with terrorists. He didn’t give a shit during the entire time when you were a porter or when you got caught up in Middle Knot’s destruction, and he certainly didn’t care about your life after he shot you and left you to die in the middle of a snowstorm.

You dragged _yourself_ , you were the only person you could depend on that night. Your body begins to tremor and ruin the seams that Higgs had worked so hard on, to which he quickly wraps an arm around your neck and shoulders, keeping you still and dependent on his weight. Although the contact makes your instincts react fervidly and distressed, your mind simmers back into a distracted and placid state.

“Sorry,” The ardent breath that hits the shell of your ear elicits shivers down the length of your arched and writhing spine, “I should stop comparing my old man to yours so carelessly, huh?”

Your eyes reach his, storm-brewed again and singed with flickering embers, they’re _almost_ charming, “S’fine. Both our dads were pieces of shit in their own way,”

The two of you stay like this for a while, but you don’t know _why_. The stench of tuberose makes you question if he still had ulterior motives—you can’t understand what you don’t know.

“I did something to the Beach,” You finally confess, thankful that Higgs doesn’t pull away to disrupt, “Amelie was wearing your face, disguised as you, and it fucking screwed with my head really badly. I got so angry, when I yelled, the Beach split apart. I think I broke some part of it. I don’t know what the fuck it was but...it scared me, honestly.”

“Maybe you did,” Higgs shrugs indifferently, resting his chin atop the crown of your head, “The angel of death is only in her prime when the world goes _boom_ , little bird. There’s still a lot that she can and cannot do, and even if she tried, she’d still get tired as hell trying to push past her limits. That also counts you. Especially since that non-sufferers like you are unable to go to the Beach,”

You find your voice caught at the back of your throat, and so you only turn away to peer into his expression, fixed upon the visage of true concern and curiosity from Higgs towards you; neither of you truly understand each other.

“Believe it or not, you’re more special than you realize. Not only do you have the gift of winning the favor of a god,” You withhold a groan and roll your eyes, “But you might be the first non-sufferer to walk the shores. Maintaining the sand for you to walk on surely tires even an Extinction Entity out, let alone bringing you there.”

“Didn’t you bring me to the Beach before on your own, Higgs?”

A cross look pinches at his expression, where you suspect guilt, “Amelie did that, I was just the oil in the cogs that helped. Carried some of her baggage, looked like a real shit show doing it, too. Kind of explains why she was so quiet, letting me do all the talking. Sufferers have a way of getting to the Beach on their own, but you don’t. Not without me or Amelie.”

_Like I’d want help getting into a place like that again_ , you think venomously, running your tongue along your fangs— _teeth_.

In a way, though, this new revelation is certainly interesting. Gratifying, in a way. What Higgs considers to be hypotheticals and probabilities, you only hear the fact that Amelie is somewhat weak against you. The only real threat is what lies in front of you while you were awake, and even so, you’ve never met Amelie in person before. Higgs is the only person who knows what she’s truly like, but he’s still kept under her thumb—there was only so much the two of you could do with the time you had. After all, Higgs still has a job to do.

“Do you think I’d be capable of destroying Amelie’s Beach?” 

It was painful; that kind of silence. The heart in your mouth reaches the tip of your tongue as Higgs keeps your anticipation hanging by a thread. He knows your knack of getting quite riled when certain questions remain unanswered to you, and so you then want to question why he would take that chance. But, Higgs unfurls his arm from around your body, and immediately, your body basks in the chill of the night again. You’re almost left trembling, had it not been for Higgs reaching over to drape his tepid cloak around your shoulders to make up for the body heat. You watch silently as he adds more kindling for the smoldering bonfire. A barrage of heat and incandescent embers then cascades against your skin, where you find that although you’re encompassed by flames and so much warmth than you know what to do with, you’re hesitant to allow yourself to feel the slightest twinge of gratitude. 

Higgs settles on sitting atop a slab of stone and resting his head against your shoulder, folding his arms and one leg over the other— _fucker’s getting a bit too comfortable_ , you grimace tightly, but allow him the space. He still feels rather rigid while you await his answer to such an impossible question. How would you even do something like that? _Scream at her to death and let the ground split open and swallow you boht whole?_ You can practically feel the grin and hear the snort that Higgs might want to let out if you said such a thing, as sardonic as he always was. But oddly, that kind of reaction seemed unfit for him. Maybe his care could outweigh the part of him that maintains levity? Your patience finally runs thin and you decide to deem the silence as an unwavering ‘ _no_ ’, though, you can both agree that such an answer was rather doubtful and clouded with a certain ambition.

_Would you even want to do such a thing, anyway?_ Besides, what you really wanted more than anything was rest.

“Oi! You haven’t finished stitching me up, asshole!”

Before you enter the blessed realm of a dreamless sleep, you wonder how you’ve managed to survive everything. While you were born in, what you considered, the most unfortunate time in the world, the more recent piling factors that made growing up in such an environment even worse was like counting sheep. Counting the mishaps, and especially your blessings wasn’t the most comforting train of thoughts. But it certainly did wonders to block out everything else—and by everything else, you mean Higgs and his incessant snoring. Although you were somewhat able to elude asking certain, frustrating questions to Higgs, everything else about him still unnerved and irked you. _And no one could ever blame you for that,_ you think—you _hope_. But even that kind of feeling deserved to be kept at a paucity.

The harm in the small, inept bonfire arrives just before the dawn. The smoldering flame now turns into cold ash that piled over charred wood, and soon billowed and scattered away into the wind. The absence of heat and the return of the cold coalesce into what may have been a burly, physical being that hit you hard enough to wake up. The act of leveraging your eyes open was already exhausting, where your vision is almost lost on you completely as the ceiling of the cavern appears to become taper.

You then use your hands and arms to stretch across the rugged ground, your fingers acting as your guide. You feel and scrape over sharp pebbles and stray twigs, finding nothing worth turning over. You then wonder where Higgs could’ve been; the sound of his snores was completely absent, only aware of the slow drum that was your aching heartbeat. Strangely, you’re discomforted—from the lack of heat or because there was no real living presence next to you, you don’t know—and a hoarse whimper leaves you.

“I’m here,” Someone’s voice soothes and delivers relief in one fell swoop, “Don’t worry.”

Something warm then envelops your wandering hand. And by then, you realize that Higgs maintains his word to tend to your needs in a hurry, his fingers carefully lacing, entwined with yours. Like thread in a needle. The sentiment does no mollification to the pain, so you bask in the moment and the given warmth instead. You begin to think again—it was becoming a bad habit, at this point. Yet, admittedly, it was hard to ignore the reasons for his actions, especially after— _pretty much—_ everything.

But, it was getting progressively easier not to give a fuck as you rethink your blessings; no matter how small or many. The fact that you were alive was a start. Your sight delves as the fog and blurs clear away, where you see Higgs huddled against the mouth of the cavern, immensely focused with what you figure out to be a book of some sort. _Leather-back, with a black binding inlaid with an ivory thread_ , you think, _a silver pinwheel between the yellowing pages_ —and then you _realize_ in a hurry that Higgs had been holding your journal. 

Your hand yanks from his grip and Higgs is utterly startled. Your spine aches to hurl forward, and with your body upright, you’re able to grasp the entire sight of Higgs handling something that was once so precious to you, that it nowadays brings you so much harrowing guilt. Your movements are frighteningly quick; hands clasping the edges of the book to coddle it to your chest, where Higgs can only comprehend at that point that you had fully awoken. The silver rotor flaps of the pinwheel spin rapidly, and you’re almost caught up with the glimmering patterns before glaring forward. The twisted leer in your eyes is something that Higgs immediately seeks out to alleviate, but he can do no such thing as your rasping snarls is faster than his pleas.

“Where did you get this?” Your words are once more filtered with scorching venom, the likes of which make your mouth burn and dry out worse—your voice becoming louder with a lingering echo, “This should’ve been burned with— _there couldn’t have been_ —why the hell do you have this!?”

There, Higgs remembers your burning steel sky, the explosion of your bunker, his visit with Lockne, and the fact that someone had rigged it. He doesn’t know which statement should come first, as they’re all equally terrible and involve him in every sort of way. As the seconds flew by, Higgs had begun to sweat bullets as he watched your patience deteriorate and your anger grow, fearful upon facing your wrath with mere apologies.

That just might end in another trip back to the Seam again, and another uncomfortable and distrusting silence from you— _god, no_. He couldn’t have that again. But where the fuck to begin? He takes a hold of his divinity and slews forward. However, he isn’t at all prepared for the violent jerk backwards your body made— _idiot_ , he thought, he must’ve looked like some lecherous, barbaric animal. Higgs is painfully aware of the guilt gleaming through his eyes, and your only response to his outburst is an impossibly twist in your rueful state. You seem to trust this anticipation enough to not run away though— _but would it fucking be worth it?_

_“Fuck—_ okay, listen...you gotta understand first, little bird; I thought you up and died,” Your expression doesn’t turn sympathetically crestfallen as he had hoped, but only more confused, “After you left America and your bunker, I went there to try and find you—try to make sense of the mess each of us made. But...of course, you weren’t there. I waited out in the snow for a helluva long time, but nothing. ”

Higgs is then met with your tight-lipped glare, “We both know I wouldn’t have opened up anyway if I was there.”

“Don’t I know it,” You’d like to say he was disappointed, but his melancholy reaches your eyes, “After I got inside the terminal and saw your old memories burnt to a crisp...I accidentally...triggered an alarm. Next thing I knew—I was rolling in the snow, watching your little old bunker blown to smithereens. I found this under the rubble.”

_There it was._ Another reason to loathe the entirety of his existence.

Your privacy meant nothing to him, did it? One part of you says that, but the other argues that he thought you were dead—your bunker, _blown up?_ How in the world did this happen? The wilderness greets you with what you thought was an open casket—your father and his lessons did leave quite the impression on you—but what you see now was the utmost bounty of freedom. You oscillated on deeming this vast terrain as such while you were locked up in that cell and escaping from the base, but now, with your old home having gone up in yet another inferno, you simply had no other option. The silvery moon melted into the pale blues beyond the unmarked horizon, and the sun that followed not long after seemed to direct your anger into something else rather than Higgs. He thought you were dead, he approved of your torture—you can’t understand what you don’t know, and you then decide to take the journal from his hands. 

The texture of what remained of the leather-back cover was rough and crumbling, charcoal smudges your hands in every corner—your mother would’ve been furious at you for not taking care of your things, but you’d said the same thing. Memories turned over with the pages, revealing fragments of your past and the once-forgotten trails within your mind as you peer back at your handwriting. Nothing was out of place nor fell short— _you truly hadn’t changed a bit, did you?_ Higgs stayed quiet beside you— _thank god—_ watching the nostalgic glimmer in your eyes overflow with something more, but he didn’t make a fuss about it right away. He’s a herald while you’re a harbinger, shedding a few tears couldn’t hurt. _It was just the natural order of things_ , he convinced himself, _for you to be sad for a time you never had and lost._

“Were you excited to see him?”

The expression that Higgs gives you—a genuine frown—is horribly cloudy, “What?”

Higgs rests his chin into the palm of his hand, trying his best not to look so commiserate, “Rowan...the kid. Having a little brother and all. Never really did see the appeal in snot-nosed potatoes with arms and legs.”

Your head nearly topples over with nostalgia as it drifts to a certain memory; the announcement. I’m pregnant, your mother said. But no matter how many times she said it, nor how many times you replayed those words in your head—you still couldn’t grasp the reality of having a sibling, younger or older. Your parents were so...focused on you. How could they ever replicate their parenting and hope for no flaws, unlike you? You had questions, but you never asked the right ones.

Your parents loathed that about you—so it was fair to feel the same way about them when they left you clueless. Higgs tests these new waters with wide, hopeful eyes hidden behind an almost apathetic patience—something to talk about just to pass the time before they head out. He wouldn’t want to consider it as ‘ _getting closer_ ’. Not yet, at least. Your smile, he remembers, the photo—he grimaces at the thought of how you might react if you found out he still kept it in his pocket. He remained still and docile, peering into the creases of your furrowed brow that harrows deeper and harsher. He can almost hear the increments of a growl.

“I don’t know,” You remain honest and caustic—Higgs saw it better than being silent and broody, “I couldn’t...I never got to meet him. My mother went away with my father that night...after I... _after—”_

“—Your mother still stood by his side after doing that to you?”

You wanted to ask if right now, he was showing empathy, but you swallowed down such a ridiculous inculpation, “An unbreakable bond, full of the strongest stuff, you could say. A love that surpassed their love for me.”

And in that moment, Higgs knows now that the two of you are almost _too_ much alike.

Had he noticed that sooner, he would’ve been able to understand what you were talking about when you asked, “Do you remember me?”

_Remember…?_

Your eyes flitter elsewhere, anywhere but him—and Higgs is worried that he might’ve pushed you a bit too far, afraid that he frightened you. Having DOOMs at his level acted as a sixth sense in a way, and he was only a second too late to become aware of what had enamored you to the point of silence. Did you see something that brought a painful nostalgia? What did you mean by ‘ _remember_ ’ someone like you? The world shudders and becomes almost too still, for his heartbeat stuttered rather than thrummed like it used to—Higgs felt like he was becoming undone by the pull of a thread, and morbid, disembodied voices hovered over his head like a raging storm cloud. A miasmic, vigorous pressure rendered him weak at the knees, however, he was strong enough to walk—remaining ever-so combatant against what he identified as the forces of the dead. What’s happening? Are you safe— _are you doing this to him?_ You’re backed away into the deep crevice of the cavern walls, your hands that were peeling raw acted as your shield, covering your head from someone who moved with a heft weight slung against their shoulders. They were reaching for you. 

_The Stranger— **fuck!**_

  
  


* * *

a whole month without updates ;A;—I know, I'm so sorry for not giving a notice or anything. But I'm starting to take much better care of myself and taking it easier now. Since I'm getting caught up in some personal stuff at the moment, I've decided to cut back the chapters into the regular 13-16 page limit, so I'll continue to try my best. It's really great to be back, I hope you enjoyed this chapter <3


	24. Erlebnisse「24」

## 𝐀 𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 

_No...fuck— **no!**_

Trapped in the middle of nowhere, spent two days licking their tortured wounds, found no sort of solace in each other’s company but mere scraps of warmth, and the rolling storm of timefall was suddenly rushing and rumbling. And yet, _none_ of those things had been the worst part. The wind sweeps you off your feet, and you tumble onto all fours with a heavy, visceral groan. Your muscles pull taut and prickle upon the jagged impact, leaving you wheezing and completely alert. The blisters on your hands from wielding the forestock of a rifle and beating men into the ground peeled back raw with your calluses, and it makes your fall stinging and bloody again.

“Little bird!” Something surges throughout the cave, leaving your chest heavy with trepidation—Higgs no doubt can feel it, too, “On your feet! Listen to me, run for it!”

_Get up! Get up, come on—!_

Thunder claps in the distance. The terror practically paralyzes you. The sharp pebbles are of no comfort under you, but you otherwise considered it your focal point, a distraction to keep you from looking at them in the eye; the sudden company of the Stranger just couldn’t see that they had beaten you down with just a mere fall. Your head sags low but your eyes flicker hectically from one crevice of the curving walls to another, in search of something to wield or towards your unbidden company who hasn’t done anything yet. The sheer, black toe-cap of the Stranger’s tactical boot hadn’t yet flung out of sight near the tips of your fingers. You restrain yourself from making any sudden, jerking movements to prevent them from getting crushed— _Higgs_ , your thoughts almost blare right out of your head, _what the hell are you doing!?_

Instead of focusing on the rough, grounded textures that creases and harrows your skin, you listen more than you see. The echoes of pattering timefall linger faintly, but the only pounding, fervent constant was the breathlessness that fell not too far from your left. _Higgs_ , you finally realize, _he’s not—he can’t do anything_. He’s straining to get even a single word out, struggling against a series of other disembodied, otherworldly whispers and surging pulses. The Stranger did not take any chances, _did they?_ Does that mean they’re more powerful than Higgs then? Are the three of them really not working with a single agenda? 

Your heart stutters hard in your chest when the Stranger kneels, beginning to sweat bullets the instant you feel a ghostly pressure gliding down the curve of your back, treading dangerously close to your recently stitched wounds. _Exposed_ , it was—you fear they might try to rip out the seams and elicit a more painful death from you. As if being blown up by a grenade launcher wasn’t agonizing enough. Amelie may have ordered such a thing, you think as you tightly squeeze your eyes shut, she already saw them, she may have wanted to finish the job ‘ _the right way_ ’. Ruined into nothing but feathers. You’d rather not pray then, you’d be sending your ‘ _gods_ ’ what they want; your sweet misery.

“ _You motherfuck—_ ” Higgs’ voice is overpowered by that rushing sound makes the cavern walls tremble again, and you begin to hear the groans and rapid splashes of tar.

_This isn’t supposed to be happening_ , those thoughts that race throughout Higgs’ head soon became a mantra, something akin to a plea. _None of this was supposed to be happening_ —or at the very least, _this soon_. There was no warning, nor foreboding essence in the gale that Higgs could’ve prepared him for something like this; entangled in sloshing limbs that never cease of thrashing and gripping, close to dragging him into an endless abyss that he didn’t think he could gain control over nor abate. He predominantly didn’t think he was able to handle seeing your fear, a face that you hadn’t shown for some time and thought you should never have to anymore.

But in truth, Higgs struggles to see anything; his eyes leak with black and grey, groaning against a thousand whispers that beg for salvation—where Higgs is only too preoccupied with his own damnation. Higgs doesn’t— _truly can’t_ —know what to do other than maintain his breathing. What ire and exasperation he has left can only do so much to assuage the pressure upon his entire body, and a perturbed wave ripples through his chest when he considers he may just have to wait for an opening. Rolling with the punches just to save you— _how absurd_.

Amelie would’ve told him that his apathy belies his ever-so expressive and dramatic nature, to which Higgs decided to remain valiant and do his best to slew forward. After you have the nerve to lift your head, however, the BTs that sprawled against the walls and Higgs’ entire body began to slither up the craggy ceiling of the cavern, inky black sludge spidering throughout every crevice just to reach your backside. _No_ , he thrashes harder, _stay away!_ His movements are hysterical, animalistic, where you might think the Stranger and Amelie would’ve thought Higgs lost himself to the wilderness then, unhinging his jaws to bite at the slick mass reaching his chin.

What you hear from your end is an amalgamation of splashing tar, phantasmal whispers, and Higgs’ efforts to release a disgruntled huff, “You know, you get freakier with each entrance. _Shit_ —I wonder what lies beyond the mask? Burnt to a crisp, ain’t you? A regular, old Freddy Kruger—”

“Higgs, this _isn’t_ the time for making shitty references that none of us knows about!” You snap, eyes brimming with the lacrimal reflection of embers.

_The fire is dying down_ , you focus your glare upward.

“What...what do you want?” Your caustic gaze is distracted by a series of small lights flickering upon the Stranger’s visor.

Silence, at first. Then a familiar pressure that keeps you from putting your head down or back away, again. You doubt that you’d get any sort of answer this time. What would they say to the likes of you anyway? The name _zero_ flashes throughout your head again, and such a moniker spears mortification inside you. Whether they were here on Amelie’s orders or on their own time, you anticipate that, no matter what, _either_ of you would meet the end of this volatile life.

Amelie might’ve considered him a loose end now, because of you. Higgs isn’t a part of this, you know that now. However, you would’ve wanted to ask what was the need for having to right-hands with two different objectives. A poor excuse for relief finally contact upon your trembling skin, hands that hold either side of your face. Your instincts to shove yourself away is painfully suppressed, rooting your knees into the earth that you struggle to find control over. 

The Stranger sees you, and what lies beyond their visor is a perfect red, bestowed upon you by the glare of the smoldering flames. 

“ ** _I_** t _ap **p**_ **e** a **r** s **y** _o_ u h _a **v**_ **e f** ou _n **d a**_ **li** tt _l_ **e** _p **e** r_s _e_ **p** h **o** _ne._ ” The voice that fell upon your ears is definitely not what you had imagined; _inhumanly_ deep and downright monstrous, where their tones had made every part of your flesh stand on end.

“So it _can_ speak,” You can hear Higgs’ snarl as clear as day, but you continue to be distracted by the red, pristine lights, “Awfully fucking poetic, isn’t it? A little bird stripped of her freedom, bound to a god who serves the angel of death. Can’t get any more dramatic than that, right? Makes you wonder where the likes of you fits into all this. So, why don’t you? Come on over here and show us how ‘ _divine_ ’ you really are!” 

_Stop talking, stop talking, stop—!_ There’s nothing standing between the Stranger from popping your head clean off your shoulders. Higgs only provides beguiling encouragement. Although, you wonder if they were truly paying attention to any of it. Another ring of uncomfortable and enigmatic silence, curiosity seeps into your bones now. You wonder who and what kind of person lies beyond the mask that shines crimson. If they’re anything like Higgs, they would’ve killed you without lifting a finger—you can tell that much. But the Stranger instead decides to examine your body— _wounds_ , more specifically, you think you’d actually start kicking if it had been anything else. 

“Why?” You ask, but you receive no answer other than silence—and Higgs was getting sick of the same old thing.

The unbridled rage that exerts from Higgs’ thrashing form leaves your curiosities dwindling at the back of your head. _Why was he so angry?_ You wanted to ask the same question back when Higgs had saved you from the fault line when the two of you were first trying to outrun them. Knuckles of red and gold, it left a perturbed frigidity crawling up your backside, akin to your own sins. You swallow down most of what your heart can allow before sucking in a tight breath from behind your teeth; the mask flickers in patterns now, three lights aligned in the shape of a triangle. The closest conclusion you can get to is that the stranger deems you as patched up enough. 

The Stranger’s gloved hand snaps shut towards Higgs’ direction, ceasing the relentless, ireful howling that you hadn’t noticed left your ears ringing, and then a searing sensation rests on your ring finger— _the ring_ , you realize, _it’s burning you_. Your body delves suddenly, gripping a hold of you with what you soon discern is limbs and grotesque liquidy fingers, ultimately preventing you from ripping off the piece of jewelry that practically brands and engraves into your skin. 

You bite back a scream and throw your head towards the Stranger who moved onto Higgs’ side. They keep their movements quick, moving aside from Higgs’ squirming that makes the tar writhe enough to free a single limb. His hand pries and scavenges nothing but air, but you don’t have time to express a piteous countenance, realizing that the Stranger had procured your fucking journal and Rowan’s pinwheel—another clap of thunder, lightning splits the sky in twain—now it was your turn to start struggling.

“Enough already! Don’t fucking touch—”

A dark, metallic shrill—a long _shush_ —silences both your voice and the sound of the storm, where your belongings are eventually shoved into a satchel hung around their shoulders, “— _Y_ **o** _ur_ stra **nd** t _o_ t **h** _ **e** g_ods h ** _a_** s **r** _e_ ac _h_ **e** d fu _r_ t _h_ **er** b _e_ y **o** nd t _h_ e _**h** o_rizo _n, n **o**_ **w**. **_S_** ho _u **l**_ d _y_ o **u** _s_ **u** _r_ v **iv** _e_ , d _ea_ **r** pe _r_ s **e** _ **p** h_o **n** _e_ , t _h_ e **n** **_Am_** e _li_ e w ** _il_ l** **m _a_** k _e u_ s **e o** _f w_ h **a** _t_ is _l_ e ** _ft_**.”

The Stranger digs deeper into their gear, soon revealing with a closed fist something that gives an awful, iridescent glimmer in your eyes. It’s miasmic and fougére, a familiar sensation that causes your nose to scrunch in distaste. They begin to be mercurial to you, while you recently deem Higgs as predictable and needlessly brooding—a change of pace. The shimmering golden powder that they reveal to you brings the pressure upon your body to increase, and the otherworldly groaning soon overpowers even the third clap of thunder that surely hovered just over the mountain. The light that pierces through the mouth of the cavern leaves you breathless and roused, but Higgs has finally exhausted himself at the worst possible time; the gold begins to permeate the air— _the BTs grow stronger._

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You groan, wriggling your shoulders from under one of the tarry, slick hands that slides down your backside.

You’re lucky enough to consider that your severed wings are a newly counted blessing, thanks to the numbing compression.

They face Higgs now, paying no mind to you while you’re practically drowning in BTs. _It hurts_ —everything’s burning. _Why is this happening?_ You’ve only just escaped and now...

“ **Am** _el_ i ** _e_** is g _ro_ w ** _i_** n ** _g_** i _m_ **p** a _tie_ **nt** , **_h_** er **al** _d_. Y _o_ **u’** _v_ e **s** _p **e**_ n _t e_ **no** _u_ gh t **i** _m **e**_ _p_ l **a** _y_ **i** n _g_ an _d b_ **re** _a_ ki _ **n** g_ y _o_ **ur** _**t** o_y,” _That name, without a doubt, is the worst one of all_ , you think, “ **Y** _ou_ s _t_ il **l** _h_ a **v _e_** a _j **o**_ b t _o_ d **o**.”

Higgs, to your utmost surprise, sneers directly in their face, “What’s with her? Always picking up the _strays_. So, what? Are you Amelie’s little errand-boy, now? Good on us, then. You can pick up where I left off.”

“A _r_ **e** _yo_ u **im** p _ly_ in **g** th **at** t _h_ is **b** _r_ oke _n_ **t** _oy_ _i_ s m **o _r_** e _i_ m ** _p_** or **t** a _nt_ t _h_ an **th** e _in_ **e** vit _ **a**_ bl _e_ **?** ”

What did you think was going to happen? Knowing Higgs, he wouldn’t cut Amelie off that easily. Especially for the likes of you; _a zero_. You don’t even know why he chose such a role in the first place, for childhood trauma is not enough of a reason to bring about mass destruction upon the world. You accepted him to _some_ extent, for what he is, not what he _was_. Yet again, you can’t understand what you don’t know—and right now, you _don’t_ understand why Higgs is in such a discomposure.

“ **I’** _l_ l **s** _p_ **a** r _e_ y _ **o** u_ th _e_ _t_ r **o** _ub_ l **e** _o_ f i _n_ f **o** _r_ **mi** _n_ g h _e **r**_ _a_ **b** _ **o** u_t y _o_ **u** r i **n** c _omp_ **e** _t_ e **n _c_** e.”

The Stranger’s hand fishes inside of their satchel again, pulling out something that gave yet another awful glimmer to your eye—the BTs thrash wilder now—and you realize that it’s Higgs’ golden mask. The jaws that will take a hold of this world’s destruction, it struck Higgs as paltry, for some reason. Things just weren’t the same anymore— _he blames himself for that._

_Fuck—!_ The pressure that keeps you pinned to the ground becomes excruciating now, the BTs are beginning to practically crush your spine and you can hardly feel your legs. They’re molten, crawling up the sides of your neck that threaten to seep into your mouth and eyes—you fear that by doing so, they’ll truly turn you into a puppet in their plan. You fervently look to Higgs for answers—a single look, _anything_ —but you see him captivated by his given role. He has the countenance of someone who is capable of feeling regret. He couldn’t feel such a thing, _could he?_ Higgs’ usually sardonic and caustic expression twists and turns crestfallen, where he accepts the mask with a tentative grip.

“No…”

He’s... _he’s_ ** _leaving._**

He still chose to do Amelie’s bidding, even if it meant leaving you behind.

“No... _no!_ Don’t you fucking dare,” You grunt through your teeth, struggling to reach an arm forward thinking—hoping that it stops him, “You better not—”

Higgs spares you a penitent frown, watching as your hand finally wriggles free and pounds into the ground.

“Give me a minute.” Higgs all but grumbles, nudging his chin forward towards the exit of the cave—another rumble of thunder engulfs the cavern in restless echoes.

“—Higgs!” The Stranger leaves in a quiet chiral ripple, feeling satisfied, you bet, and the BTs that claw into your skin finally evanesces back into the withering darkness—for the dawn has finally come, “Whatever you’re gonna do, I don’t give a shit. But you can’t just leave me out here, you asshole. You can’t! You wanna make up for what you’ve done? Take me home! Take me somewhere else— _fuck_ —take me to your damn bunker for all I care! Just…”

_Please, Higgs. Don’t **leave** me_. The words that you want to say, however, become caught in the back of your throat. _Don’t leave me like you did on the Beach._

Your wings still ache. You handled too much while he was away. Leaving you like this, half-mended and almost broken into smithereens, it was a hit below the belt. The repentant, one-sided conversations could’ve been just talk, but oddly, you fiercely want to believe otherwise. Higgs steps forward, a storm-brewed gaze watching as the pressure on your body becomes lifted, and kneels in front of you. You can’t get up, you realize, no matter how much you want to. Higgs doesn’t want you following after him.

_Not yet, at least_ , he thinks. _If he ever could_. Higgs’ guise is puzzling, an oscillating man who deems himself a god, but considers himself lower to the likes of someone as true and honest than yourself. What he feels for you terrifies him. He is perturbed by the way his heart stirs when he’s beside you, irked by the thrum his chest makes when he found you again in the midst of chaos—swelling with solace when he found company in your safe presence. He doesn’t understand you. _How could he possibly?_

Your gaze is brimming with tears, “What is it this time? A goodbye for now? Or forever?”

“I’d like to spare you from an agonizing obliteration myself, little bird,” Higgs says quietly, his gloved hands capturing the sides of your face—ultimately ignoring your question, “If I do this just right, then the end won’t be as doomed as we think.”

“That’s a fucking lie,” The ire in your voice had all but withered away, there was nothing to feel sorry about now— _not yet,_ “We were doomed from the beginning.”

“Yeah, I know,” Higgs chuckles breathlessly, shuddering faintly as his forehead rests tenderly against yours, “Little bird, you don’t need me to find home. Not anymore. You already know what path to take, you’ve known your whole life. Avoiding me should be a fucking walk in the park. I’m only...I’m only trying to take the pain away. And even if we do find our way back together again, do you think either of us are capable of forgiving each other?”

You don’t know how to answer that. If you do search for him, neither of you would get a peaceful death; not a speck of Amelie’s mercy when the Last Stranding comes upon the Earth. Higgs fights for both of those things. But if you don’t look for him, you’d be all alone again—ever-so caustic, candid, brutal, and in no way empathetic towards whoever is left in your meager life. You wouldn’t be the master of your own fate anymore—it’s no longer your choice. It was all so familiar—with Higgs and Rowan. Your head lowers, your contrite regard for his gaze falls towards your sunken knees. But Higgs, of course, doesn’t expect an answer right away. 

He scrutinizes every part of your face within this new level of propinquity. He holds you in his hands, he realizes, and yet again, his chest thrums ever-so coruscatingly. His heart betrays him when all he is able to do in that lingering silence was wait for you to push away. You did so when you were awake and precise of your actions, your feelings had always been an immovable force that he couldn’t imagine bending. _Why don’t you do so?_ Higgs awaits your instincts to kick in when the silence becomes too much to bear, but you relax and breathe in a quiet, shuddering pace. _Don’t fall asleep on me_ , he almost says with a chuckle, but eventually hovers closer—drawn to a gaze that _finally_ spares him some attention. 

His thumb swipes past your cheek and hovers above your bottom lip. A mending cut there, a yellowing bruise there—but in all veracity, you’re still against him, despite how much you might not want to be otherwise. You feel vulnerable, but welcome, watching as Higgs’ _stupid_ , _godforsaken_ face engraved with tattoos fade into dark colors. And, in all at once, a new kind of warmth comes into bloom—the dawn in the horizon has become nothing but mere light as Higgs presses his lips upon your cheek. There is no golden jaw there, nor the brush of cold metal against your hands this time, but an impossibly close and intimate gesture that you never thought you’d experience ever in your waking life. 

Another kiss is placed upon your brow, and then on the corner of your lips. You tremble then, swaying with the world that is all but lost upon you. Higgs grounds you that you’re alive and safe with his presence, his kiss that soon rests upon your own. Soft and gentle, inert and real. You truly don’t know what else to do than relish in what little he has to give. Knowing him, such a thing was ‘ _a fucking walk in the park_ ’. He was nefarious and skilled in all sorts of things, and to show them to you was terrifying. But then again, every new experience was. When he pulls away, the both of you are rendered breathless and almost weak in the knees; giddy, even. And it takes every bit of Higgs’ willpower not to act on his impulses, left wanting more than what he bargained for. 

“Think of it as one, last gift from me, little bird.” He breathes, where you see a smile wreathed with mirth, “Well? Got something in return?”

It takes you a moment, but you muster a similar, mirthful response with a white-knuckling effort, inching away from his lips, “Slow your roll there, cowboy. We aren’t that close yet. You’ll get it after you get my journal and my brother’s pinwheel back. Go, now, before I change my mind. Also, because you’re blocking the view.”

As Higgs turns to see the rise of a new day, the sun casts an iridescent, golden halo that he thinks betrays his likeness. You, on the other hand, dare to say he lived up the appearance of wielding such divinity, but all you do is scoff and roll your eyes. 

Higgs huffs with a faint sense of pride, “Oh, please. I _am_ the view.”

And then, he’s gone in an instant before you have the chance of killing him again.

_He would’ve left anyway_ , your thoughts are now desolate, _there’s no stopping the inevitable._

The afternoon sky is a milky-blue that shimmers with an abundance of light, a heartfelt sight to see as it shines upon the wilderness. More often than not, you tend to appreciate what you slightly deem as the country-side, especially after what had transpired this entire week. The little blessings you counted kept you intrepid as you climbed into the Cicada PHI that Higgs left behind, as he decided to teleport back to his role as the herald of death. _He’s back at the base without a doubt_ , you think as you peer at the unmarked road ahead of you—your attention enraptured by the mountain ridges, _you’ll have to go around._

You suspect there would be scouts on Higgs’ watch that would be looking for any sign of you; their zero or even the Elysian sixes and their convoys. If there was any time left, you’d want an effort to try and visit them. _Don’t trek through the mud_ , you remember Nebula’s tactical instructions well, straying from the intended path to move eastbound. The gale that flutters through the tresses of your hair is whimsical and almost thrilling—it reminded you of your earlier days as a porter. There is no increment of mundane life out here as you drive through the bumpy terrain, no speck of lost cargo waiting to be turned in nor any sign of wildlife roving through the field. You wonder then if you could’ve ever survived out in a place like this, and hopping cave to cave didn’t sound like the best way to live out the rest of your days from America.

Your mother and father taught you much, but you don’t think that it would’ve ever been enough. The faultline is soon put behind you as you finally make your way past the estimated border of the terrorist’s enterprise—you could even hear the dull, electrical surge of your odradek sensor as the cicada’s tires bump against the rocks. You explore your available options of when you reach back to Mountain Knot, wondering if contacting Lockne was even an option. A chill runs down the entirety of your spine when you entertain the idea of contacting your father for help. 

_Nope_. No way. You were doing fine, _more or less_ , without him. He put you through hell until you were able to take care of yourself. And as you spot a rather vacant and barren area in the further distance, your confidence in that thought swells. You park the vehicle near a group of rocks that breach the surface of the earth, its height even surpassing you on your toes. It takes you half an hour to get comfortable as your body struggles to sink into the vehicle cushions just right, wanting to release as much tension as you could before continuing on your journey. There wasn’t any time for breaks then, not while the spring night falling so quickly. 

It isn’t long before you focus on your own thoughts rather than the light of the rising sun, sinking even further into the seats with a rather flustered twist in your brows as you remember what exactly happened back in the cave. Higgs kissed you, that motherfucker actually _kissed_ you! If it had been any other day when no one was trying to kill you, you would’ve ripped his lips clean off his face. Even so, you wondered why you didn’t do a single thing but remain placid and almost compliant to his intimacy. It soon reminds you of that dream you had of him so long ago, and even then, your face _still_ burns with disconcertment. It wasn’t like you were any different when you spent those nights in his bunker with him, feeling gutted when you were in each other’s arms. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth and decided to sit up in the driver’s seat and begin moving on.

If Higgs found out you were fawning over such a memory, you wouldn’t hear the end of it. 

Turning the ignition on, you relish in the sound of the purr of the engine, “Just a few more ways to go.”

However, your encouragement is seen as a jinx the moment you hear a sudden sputter. Your gaze fervently flickers towards the dark hood of the cicada that releases a metallic groan. The steam that wafted through the air was a blatant sign that the universe wasn’t done with you yet, and with the biggest groan emptying from your heavy chest, you shove yourself out of the vehicle and throw the hood open. There was an emergency tool kit in the boards of the convoy, but you doubted that no amount of survival skills would aid you in mechanical engineering. _That was Mama’s field, not mine_ , you restrain yourself from spewing a string of curses.

And, unsurprisingly, no matter how long or whatever you examined with your own eyes, you couldn’t draw any conclusions as to what was wrong; leaving you with no convenient mode of transportation. Guess you really did have to make an effort to find the Elysian’s base.

_“For fuck’s sake!”_ You grunt hotly, kicking your foot against the rubber tire that did nothing but create a welt on your sole. 

Nebula did say to ditch the vehicle halfway to her base, but then again, you had no fucking idea where that was. You turned towards the snow-capped mountain ridges that were practically singing your name, and with your head in your hands, did you decide to abandon the vehicle completely. Luckily, there was an abundance of supplies that would help alleviate your lingering pain and wounds, however, there was only so much you could carry without your skeleton. _You were a porter_ , for fuck’s sake, _wasn’t this ironic?_ You stuffed everything you could inside of Higgs’ measly, mottled duffle bag that still reeked of blood, where you inwardly hoped that whoever he had to beat to get this suffered as much as you did. Your thoughts were mostly out of spite, and so you begin to walk off the steam. 

You try to remember all the verbal indications of their hide-out or rendezvous points. What you can just barely recall through your fogged memory and the bitter ache in your shoulder-blades is Nebula mentioning a canal not far from the area. However, you’re cautious and unconfident in what you heard; _what is an artificial canal doing all the way out here?_ You deem Amelie to be responsible for the fabricated forces at work here, _she must be planning something_ , you think with a rather sour taste in your mouth, _something big_. The pace you trek is slow and steady, as you’re not quite ready to test your limits with the wounds you carry. The sun was just overhead, but that didn’t at all give much mollification to your foreboding gut-feelings. You’re showered with light but hardly any warmth, finding yourself lost again remembering the comforts that Higgs had to give.

You shake your head with reddened cheeks, releasing a visceral growl from your desiccated throat, “Idiot. Always finding a way of getting myself killed. All he did this time was let me go,”

You reminisce on the times when that’s what all you could think about; being let go. 

A snickering laugh flutters from your lips, finally beginning to descend from the knoll of a hill, “Man, do I have some strange-ass standards.”

The terrain from here out is smooth and spacious, but you’re oddly determined to find what lies on the other side. Whether you’d come across a canal or not, you’d like to think you’re coming closer instead to the likes of a rag-tag group of sufferers. You wonder how they differ from non-sufferers like yourself, what research that Doctor Heartman shared with you didn’t provide a solid answer on mundane living. Higgs wasn’t exactly the best example of a regular DOOMs user, and neither was Fragile—you’d like to prepare yourself before seeing an _entire group_ until then. By the way Callahan and Nebula spoke of it, the Elysian sounded like an entire fucking _community_. The very thought does wonders to worsen the awkward chill swiping across the nape of your neck. 

The grass is taller and thinner here, the blades shifting and brushing against your thighs that were stilled wrapped in rather old and largely stained bandages. As your gaze flitted elsewhere towards the sun that has finally passed over your head, you ultimately decide to change them and settle down on the shorter green patches. Higgs, you found, had been an exceptional medic when it really counted—your wounds hardly wept at all. Your face twists and becomes crestfallen; _his daddy,_ you remember, _no wonder Higgs was so good at this_. You wonder what kind of man Higgs was raised by, if he was even more cruel than Higgs gave him credit for, but your mind soon falls to your own old man. The bullet scar tingles then, but you do your best to ignore it as you procure a roll of gauze from the duffle bag.

Your legs had mostly been healed, but it was your ribs and shoulder blades that Higgs worked on the most. With proper rest, your ribs would’ve been healed in no time—but the same couldn’t be as easily said when it came to your backside. Callahan’s knife practically mixed up your insides, bones had chipped and had to be forcefully woven together by a meager thread. _Staples would have sufficed_ , you remember telling him, but he only responded with a careworn smile. He must’ve really been worried about you— _despite you being the one who killed him._

You snicker then and finish wiping stray rubies that roll down your healing injuries, eyes turning towards the horizon that shimmers with the beginnings of sunset. The red, orange, and gold remind you of the younger days when you had nothing to worry about other than yourself, languid often but never spiteful towards your work. The tufts of pinker clouds hover above distant lands that you would’ve never dreamed of running through, for the warm harmonious colors melt into the blooming, wild greens and blacks. The blue hour was just upon you, but you didn’t pay much mind towards the threat of what lies in the dark; Higgs’ warnings sounded more like _fairy-tales_ than actual dangers. ‘ _Men who have long lost their way_ ’, what did that even mean? You stay for a moment longer to sway with the breeze that makes your hair and heart enact a calm dance; yet another blessing to count.

Peeking an eye open through your rest, the sky overhead sheds its lighter blues and begins to shimmer in specks of white. The dark nuances in the terrain’s greens, however, provokes some measure of curiosity and caution towards you, they’re growing ever-so rapidly, doing more than just swaying but moving from one space of the earth to the other. You spring up on your knees and hunch forward, getting closer to the ground that begins to rumble and carry the sounds of whispers faintly. The variations of starlight shift with the moving shadows, as well, where you’re confident now that they were people. And you were, _more or less_ , trespassing throughout their territory. You move your feet out from under your knees and proceed to slink backwards, practically sweating bullets before the whispers become a series of indistinct, angry fragments of conversation; they’re arguing over something— _looking for something._

_“We can’t...others...nothing back…”_ You couldn’t make out what exactly they were saying, but you shudder as the flickering lights change in hue; red, blue, and greens. 

They might be the Elysian, you think slowly, swallowing thickly before deciding to uproot yourself from the tall grass. You stand straight and in the clear open, hoping that you wouldn’t pass off as one of their own nor a threat of any kind—in your experience, being interrogated for an introduction was a _no-go_. Although your movements betray you earlier than you’d expect as you drop the duffle bag loudly beside your foot, the indistinguishable, fleeting semblances of the unknown group’s conversation soon turn into alerted shouts of command. They point their vibrant lights in your direction, a single red light hitting your stomach and a blue, piercing glare rests upon your eyes. There’s movement all around you now, but you keep still and steel the small amount of nerves you have.

Your arms rise from your sides and stretch openly, a faint and awkward smile woven on your lips—you try your best to remain docile even whilst you couldn’t see a thing.

“Holy shit,” A gasping voice rouses from your side, filled with shock and laughter, “ _Snake-bite?_ S’ that you?”

You thrust your chin forward in a perfunctory form of acknowledgement, shying away from the lights that practically blinded you before offering an insouciant, pearly smile, “Guess I’m a fucking walking miracle, huh?”

* * *

we did it. AHH-- _WE DID IT._ they kiSSED. writing this chapter was actually super-duper fun, I hope you all enjoyed it. After reaching the half-way point, I thought it was finally time. it's actually a big deal for me, personally, bc I never get to the point of writing romantic scenes lmao. I thought there was so much tension that's been released and yet so many new questions about what lies ahead! one of which [ohohohooboy] is; _what are higgs and little bird now? are they dating finaLLY? they kissed so--_

to which all I say is: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ who knows? ;) my poor, sweet audience. did you think it was that simple? my stories are never that easy! ~~when tf have they ever been anyway.~~

but thank you to everyone who has stuck with me and continues to read! ;A; I appreciate every bit of love, support, kudos, and skim. <3 until next time.


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